


Kind Hearts and Coronets

by TevinterPariah



Series: Kind Hearts and Coronets [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Big Sister Maevaris Tilani, But more like Friends to Distrust/Enemies to Friends Again to Lovers, Childhood Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Two Sassy Mages: That's the Fic, You Can’t Spell Necromancer Without Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24751261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TevinterPariah/pseuds/TevinterPariah
Summary: "Kind Hearts Are More Than Coronets, And Simple Faith Than Norman Blood."AU: Trevelyan and Dorian meet at a wedding in Tevinter when they are preteens and the two become fast friends. This is until, they fight at Trevelyan's brother's wedding, where Matthieu’s ‘fiery’ outburst reveals his magical proclivities to the Thedosian nobility. Trevelyan is sent away to the Circle at Ostwick and Dorian is unable to reach the boy who blames him for his ‘imprisonment.’ Years later, after the Conclave when Trevelyan is with the Inquisition, the pair reunites in the Redcliffe Chantry and Maker help them.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus & Maevaris Tilani, Dorian Pavus & Male Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan, Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Series: Kind Hearts and Coronets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789873
Comments: 21
Kudos: 50





	1. 14 Guardian, 9:22 Dragon; 1 Firstfall 9:23 Dragon; 20 August, 9:24 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Dorian Pavus isn’t enjoying his cousin’s wedding, that is until he torments one studious Lord Matthieu Trevelyan into paying him attention. This blooms into a beautiful friendship all cut too short by a ‘fiery’ incident

The eleven-year-old magical prodigy steps over bodies in his silks and makes his way to a settee by a windowsill. Whether they were dead or blackout drunk, he couldn’t say and all the red stains certainly didn’t help, but after all, it was a Tevinter wedding. His cousin, Jasecca Thalrassian, was getting married to some Free Marcher, so the whole of Northeast Thedas decided to show up at their estate. 

All Dorian had wanted to do today was read his copy of the _Liberalum_ that his mother urged his father to borrow from the Magisterium Library when they were last in Minrathous. He was astounded she could persuade his father to, that man was determined to make his life a living hell since he was expelled from the Circle at Carastes two years back. It wasn’t as if Magister Amladaris’ son didn’t deserve those burns from his Chain Lightning spell, and in all honesty the lesions it caused that looked like Dalish vallaslin had only improved his appearance. The Grand Enchanter, however, had thought otherwise. Since then, he’d attended the Circle at Minrathous and had been through a slew of private tutors, who all, to his father’s dismay, hadn’t worked out. He was to be off to the Circle at Vyrantium in a few months' time, but Dorian had serious doubts that it would be anything different. 

But today, today he had to be the noble son and paragon of House Pavus to the Thedosian aristocracy as opposed to the young pariah. He couldn't give two figs about how darling Felicia Erimond looked or how well her brother Livius was doing in the Circle. He didn’t care if one of the Lord Trevelyan’s sons killed the ninety-fourth Pentaghast in line for the throne. He just wanted to read in peace and quiet. But no, his “intended” Livia Herathinos thought it would be funny to steal the book and dare to tear the pages out unless he would dance with her.

The second she gave him back the tome he ran as fast as his legs could carry him to the patio across the estate where many decadent nobles drank their fine wine over games of Wicked Grace. It was certainly more peaceful here, and there was no Livia or father to disturb him. Dorian wets his finger as he turns the page, and smiles to himself as he furiously reads each world hoping to unravel all the secrets of early Tevinter. As he lets out a sigh and scans the patio, he spots a young blonde boy in silks on a settee across the way, reading what looks to be a copy of _The Malefica Imperio._

Upon seeing the offending piece of literature, if one could call it that, Dorian straightens his robes and approaches the blonde. He stands in front of the boy, waving his hand behind the book, but it does not distract the reader. Dorian gently pushes the book down, causing the blonde to look up at him astoundedly, which Dorian smirks at.

“If you wanted to hear about the evil ‘Vints you could just talk to us, no need to read garish attempts at history,” he says smugly to the wide-eyed reader he has disturbed. 

The other boy squirms uncomfortably under his gaze, which Dorian allows himself to take a bit of pride in. He could enjoy himself at this party yet. The blonde replies, “I didn’t mean to offend, I was just—” 

Dorian lets out a small laugh, “Reading propaganda against my homeland and in my own home? Rather bold for a Southerner.”

This seems to get the boy going, as he flares up in self-defense, “I’m a Free Marcher mind you, and no.” The boy gathers his thoughts before saying, “I was trying to acquaint myself with the area I was visiting, seeing as I’ve never been to Tevinter before and didn’t want to seem like a _complete_ fool, Lord Pavus.” 

“Well if you want to be educated as I said, there are better books,” Dorian says, taking the boy’s book out of his hands and plopping down next to him on the settee. The other boy looks at him incredulously and Dorian smirks as he examines him, “Blonde hair, charming eyes, Free Marcher, you must be one of the seven Lord Trevelyans I take it.”

“I would be the seventh, yes,” he says stifling a small laugh before extending his hand to Dorian, “Matthieu.” 

Dorian takes his hand and firmly shakes it, “Dorian, the one and only, Lord Pavus, at your service, and before you ask, _Magister_ Pavus is my father. You Southerners always get them mixed up, don’t you?” 

As he speaks he can practically see Matthieu’s cheeks heat up in frustration, “But I said I’m from—”

“Yes, the Free Marches, as you so passionately put it,” he says dramatically. He wishes he could do something else but mercilessly tease the young lord right now. However, he’s having too much fun and fears he’ll lose the boy’s attention if he stops. If he does, Trevelyan will go back to that dreadful tome, and that is something he would _not_ allow to occur. The sake of Tevinter’s reputation in the lord’s eyes was at stake, of course. It was quite ironic actually, that he was trying to keep someone else away from a book, which was the cause of his previous misery today. He, however, would not let Matthieu know that. 

Matthieu counters with, “Do you take pride in frustrating me, Lord Pavus?”

“Of course, it’s not as if there’s anything else at this party to do.” The young Lord Trevelyan rolls his eyes which gets a small laugh out of the young Lord Pavus who has all but forgotten the _Liberalum_ and its records of ancient magisters. Maybe he could thoroughly enjoy himself at a Tevinter party, just this once. 

* * *

_ Dear Matthieu, _

_ It has been a few weeks since I last heard from you and I am certain you must be undone by my absence. Getting adjusted to the Vyrantium Circle has been a complete and utter bore. The Enchanters here are incredibly dull and there’s not a single advanced thaumaturge here with fascinating research! Castrates, the hell that it was at least had that. Please pray to the Maker for me, he certainly isn’t listening to my devotions.  _

_Did you receive my parcel yet? The actual histories of Tevinter I sent are immensely better reading material than The Malefica Imperio._ _I found Lord Rodney Pierce’s_ _Tales and Legends of the Free Marches a riveting read, and upon reading its contents you must promise to allow me to accompany you at the next Grand Tourney. I will not accept a no on this matter._

_ I had been meaning to tell you my family is doing Satinalia in Minrathous as opposed to Antiva this year. We aren’t exactly on speaking terms with the Valisti family at the moment so staying at their estate is out of the question. Would you like to grace your holiday with my presence and visit the capital instead of wasting away in Antiva City? My parents are open to your visit and I’m certain the Montilyets and your family will not mind. _

_ Mother is beside herself that I have a friend my age who I haven’t terrorized with my magic. Not that I do not terrorize you, but you seem to rather enjoy it. Regardless, it is altogether more pleasant to have you by my side and I eagerly await your response.  _

_ Charming as ever, _

_ Dorian _

* * *

_ Dear Dorian, _

_ I am sorry I have robbed you, as it seems you are the one undone by my presence, dear friend. I am hesitant to admit that the desperation is unbecoming, but we shall remedy the issue soon enough. I am sorry to hear the new Circle is not up to your monumental standards and hope you can find your place there soon. If there are no thaumaturges, it seems as if the self-proclaimed prodigy of House Pavus must rise to the occasion. You are no doubt up to the challenge, I presume? _

_ I did in fact receive your parcel and did my reading so you do not scold me. I learned my lesson the first time and would rather not repeat it. The book on the Imperial Chantry was fascinating to say the least, I am beside myself you found a way to get me a banned book without it having been confiscated. You should have seen the look on Thom’s face when we read it together under the cover of night. If the servants find it and I get in trouble, I’m blaming it on your corrupting influence.  _

_ Speaking of, I shall be spending the holidays with you as you wish. I asked my father to relay a message to yours to see if there is room enough in your apartments for the whole clan. We all enjoyed our time in Qarinus and it would do for a nice change of pace. I’m sure you must be heartbroken you will not have me all to yourself as you wished, but it is a good compromise.  _

_ Please let me know if you have any recommendations for me as we make preparations for the trip. I do not wish to embarrass myself in Tevinter society again as I did at the Thalrassian wedding, and I know you would be more than willing to lecture me.  _

_ Eagerly awaiting your thoughts, _

_ Matthieu  _

* * *

In the middle of Minrathous’ hanging gardens, Dorian pushes his emerald encrusted black and gold mask in place with one hand and holds tightly to the Free Marcher noble’s in another. The young Lord Matthieu Trevelyan, wearing a gold and white mask that sparkles with pieces of sapphire, is dragging the Altus. The gardens are alight with magic, as the sun had already fallen on this year’s Satinalia and the stars were out. The sounds of festivities can faintly be heard from the apartments overlooking the Gardens, but here, things are more peaceful.

They have been wandering for an hour or so ago after the feast in the Pavus’ Minrathous apartments. The alcohol-induced adults started discussing marriage arrangements and the latest gossip in Thedosian aristocratic circles. When his mother began speaking of his intended, Livia Herathinos, he had taken it as a cue to leave with Matthieu. He wanted to give the two of them a chance to be alone before the Trevelyans head back to Ostwick on the morrow. 

He completely forgot to get Matthieu a gift in his insanity adjusting to the Vyrantium Circle, so he offered Matthieu an evening tour of the city’s gardens. What he lacked in planning, he certainly made up in poise as he had presented Matthieu with a yellow rose during said proposal, which was now pinned to the blonde’s lapel. Well, he is  _ supposed _ to be giving the tour, but the wide-eyed Free Marcher seems to have other plans. Like an excited Mabari, Matthieu has been running from plot to plot to stroke the petals and taking in the smells of what seems like every flower in sight. 

When they take a break from meandering, they find a bench where Matthieu hands the Altus half of an extra sugar-drizzled lemon cake smuggled from the feast. As they nibble on the delicacy, Matthieu tries to flaunt his knowledge, pointing out several constellations in the sky. He only messes up once, confusing Draconis and Satinalis, which the Altus does not let him live down. Sitting here, with a dear friend, is a simple joy he has not come to expect, but one he is grateful for. 

For what seems like hours, but is merely a short while, they jovially discuss their Satinalia spoils. At one point, Matthieu exclaims, “Maker, I had almost forgotten,” as he frantically searches his satchel out of what seems to be nowhere. He pulls out a small parcel and extends it towards Dorian with a shy smile. Matt isn’t usually this reserved?  _ This is strange _ . He raises an eyebrow to the Free Marcher who urges him to take it. And so he does.

Gently undoing the silken ribbon, the fabric falls to reveal a small wooden statuette of a duck with little wheels on it. Confused as to if this is a prank or not, he eyes Matthieu and asks, “Matt, you do know I’m older than you? What am I to do with this?”

“The craftsman is teaching me to woodwork as a way to better myself. It’s the first decent thing I’ve made and thought to give it to you,” he says, not making eye contact with the Altus and fiddling with his fingers. Dorian can sense a flush on the boy’s face but the mask obscures too much to tell, which is frankly disappointing. It is already hard enough to see the noble’s bright blue eyes behind the blighted thing.

Matthieu puffs up his chest and lets out an anxious laugh. Dorian can tell he’s desperately trying to cover his nerves with sass so as to not flounder: it’s quite adorable. He continues, “I’m sorry if it’s not up to your  _ impossibly high _ standards. I—”

The gift, in all its bizarreness, is quite charming and extremely Matthieu. His holidays are always filled with the best finery that coin can buy, but never with things this thoughtful or made directly for him. As silly as it is, this is different and he cannot help but feel heartwarmed, as unbecoming as it may sound. 

Dorian gently places a hand on Matt’s and gives him a smile. Not a smile filled with snark or charm, but a genuine one, to ensure Matthieu gets his meaning. “Hush now, I adore it,” he offers, before quickly adding, “It just radiates that  _ dreadfully rustic _ Southron charm of yours.” 

When Matthieu scoffs at him, a playful smirk crosses the Tevinter’s face. It seems as if his dear friend has returned to normal from whatever state he had been in. “Consider you miss my barbarism on the daily, you’ll shan’t miss it now when I’m gone,” Matthieu smugly retorts.

“Such a pity and here I was  _ just  _ starting to forget it,” Dorian counters, which earns him a light elbow in the side from Matthieu.

“Sod off. You know you could never, Dor” Matthieu lightly snorts as he gets off the bench. Smiling down at him Matthieu extends a hand out to help him up, “Come now, it’s getting late and we don’t want our parents to think anything uncouth.” 

Dorian, this time the one slightly beside himself, takes Matthieu’s hand. He allows the blonde to get him to his feet and before he can say anything, he’s dragged by the hand towards the family apartment. Matthieu bounds ahead of him with a spring in his step, but does not loosen his tight grip on their entwined hands. They must look completely foolish, but it doesn’t matter at this moment. 

He’s glad that Matthieu is ahead of him and cannot see the light flush he feels spreading across his face. Only Matt would have thought to give him such an intimately personal yet utterly ridiculous gift for the holiday. The Trevelyan is certainly right about one thing though. The more time he spends with the lord the harder it is to forget him and his insufferable charm. 

* * *

_Dear Dorian,_

_I hope this letter finds you well, if at all. I had a dreadful time trying to figure out which Circle you were at, considering I received a ‘contrite’ reply that you were not a student anymore at the Vyrantium Circle. What have you done this time?_

_Things in Ostwick have been well. Did you receive word my brother Seamus is marrying the Teyrn’s daughter? We all had thought he’d make nothing of himself, but here he is doing better than the rest of the lot. I’ve received word that Michel is enjoying his time in the Order at Ansburg of late, but I pray I will not be next. I think I’m not oafish enough to be a Templar. I’m more of the bookish mage type, that would be if magical abilities did manifest and mages weren’t blasted prisoners here._

_I do hope I will see you again soon. It has been what? Six months now, and as charming as your letters are, they are incredibly dull in comparison to your presence. You must come to the Teyrn’s palace for Seamus’ wedding, it will be a bore without you criticizing us Southron heathens._

_Your ever dull friend,_

_Matthieu_

* * *

_Dear Matthieu,_

_I am appalled that you think it was I who did something at the Vyrantium Circle to warrant my expulsion. You know just as well as I how perfect and incapable of wrongdoing I am. The vengeful spirit I summoned agreed with me, the administration did not. Until the great Magister Halward Pavus finds another Circle suitable for his son, I am to train under a Nevarran tutor. Maker help me._

_Dreadfully sorry for Seamus, I would not wish that fate upon anyone, but I will, however, attend your party for the sap, if father allows it. I know at least my mother will be eager to get us out of Qarinus, she has redecorated the estate three times since we’ve returned from Minrathous._

_If your household’s blind loyalty to the Ostwick Chantry and the Templar robs me of my dearest friend, I don’t think I could ever forgive them. They’ll have to see the true power of a Tevinter Altus when he is displeased. Our shared, although distant, bloodline has strong magical capacity, I am altogether surprised that none of you Trevelyans have magical proficiency. If you do, however, you must tell me immediately and privately so that we can whisk you away to the wondrous Tevinter Circles of Magi. I’d certainly rather you attend than me._

_I had no idea you had been so grief-stricken since the Pentaghast funeral by my loss. I will make sure to entertain you in the South when I visit. Expect our appearance at the Teyrn’s estate but ensure the servants prepare something palatable for me, would you?_

_Your ever charming and closest friend,_

_Dorian_

* * *

As much as he was enjoying the wedding banquet, he was not enjoying Matthieu’s attitude with him today. As much as he adored the younger Trevelyan lord, he could be incredibly clingy at events. This passion, however, he did not expect from the studious boy, especially at his own family’s event. “Andraste’s tits, you’re an ass. Do you know that or are you too busy preening yourself for my cousin to notice?” 

Dorian would admit that the young lord Sebastian Vael was nothing if not handsome, anybody with eyes could do as much. Had he not been paying as much due attention to Matthieu as the boy would have wanted? Yes. But, they spent the past few days together and he wants to enjoy the ball with an exceedingly handsome face. It’s not as if his father is here to ever find out and his mother is likely already blacked out by now from the amount of alcohol she had consumed, again. This is his chance to try to explore whatever attractions he has been feeling that he isn’t allowed to back home without it likely coming back to haunt him, but apparently this would not slide with the Trevelyan lord. 

“Me? Preening? Perish the thought. Is it my fault he’s charming?” Dorian retorts, earning him a glare from Matthieu. For good measure, he adds, “You Ostwick nobles can learn a thing or two about hospitality from them you know?” 

Matthieu however is not pleased with him or his witty rapport tonight, “Maker, it’s your last night in Ostwick, and you’ve barely spoken to me.” 

“Yes, and we have spent the whole of three days together. Certainly, I can be without you for a few hours, can’t I?” Dorian frowns, crossing his arms. 

Matthieu lets out a frustrated sigh, “But you’re going back home and I don’t know when I’ll see you again, why can’t you make the most of this?”

He curtly retorts as he holds his head up high with a smirk, “I’m certainly trying to, Lord Trevelyan… which you _so_ rudely interrupted.” 

“You blighted bastard,” the young Lord Trevelyan mutters while giving the young Altus a shove. He expects Matthieu to become frustrated, what he does not expect is the small flames emanating from the boy’s palm. They sear a small hole in his robe as it catches, and he feels the heat burn against his shoulder. 

He has not even registered what Matthieu had done, that he used magic. He was used to minor accidents that came up when anger flared between young mages. He had certainly shocked a few people with loose sparks in his day and had been on the receiving end of an untrained pyromancer’s outburst. It was almost second nature that he doesn’t realize the gravity of the young lord’s fiery outburst. 

“Dearest Matthieu, I know you’re upset with me but was it necessary to burn me?” Dorian laughs off-handedly, as he brushes the small remaining flames away. He expects a witty retort but all he finds Matthieu furiously moving his gaze back and forth between his own cackling hand and Dorian’s slightly sizzled robes. 

“It’s not that big of —” Dorian goes to say, but stops himself as he moves his eyes away from Trevelyan and towards the crowd gathered at the reception. Everyone is staring down the twelve-year-old blonde boy. The noble boy who had just become one of the most dangerous and hated people in the South: a mage. 

At this rate, Dorian expects Matthieu wouldn’t even be able to stay the rest of the party with him, he would be taken to the Ostwick Circle immediately. Damn him, the young lord should have had the sense to blow up on him in private, then at least the could have avoided what was, in all honesty, Chantry imprisonment. Now, he would lose his best and only friend over a tiff he had instigated. _Kaffas._ This is exactly what he bloody needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first shot at Dragon Age fic, so I hope you enjoy it! I'm sorry if my preteens sound like whole ass adults, I was struggling, but they are nobles, so like they're well-spoken and educated. I honestly shouldn't be writing this with everything in my life going on, but I need a Childhood Friends to Distrust/Enemies to Friends to Lovers Pavelyan in my life, so here we are. Any feedback is lovely as always!


	2. 15 Kingsway, 9:24 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthieu receives his fourth letter from Dorian since he’s arrived at the Ostwick Circle of Magi and reflects on what could have been and what’s come to be

Whoever told him that the most misery one could endure was a Blight had certainly never been part of a Circle. It is _unbearable._ He has never considered himself spoiled, he never ran to father for the latest finery or a new stallion whenever he wished. As the seventh son, he had always received all of the hand-me-down trinkets and clothes his siblings grew out of. However, he had grown used to the simple luxuries of having a valet to help him dress or the family cook to prepare his favorite meal at his beck and call. Having none of these at the Circle, makes it _quite_ distressing. 

It isn’t just missing the estate and it’s luxuries though, it’s also his family. Before the Circle, he would joke how much he hated his brothers, but now he would give anything to have been shoved in a closet and teased mercilessly by Michel and Brahm, practice swordplay with Percival and Seamus, or study for their tutor’s examinations with Klaus and Thom. When he arrived, he asked the Senior Enchanter Lydia if his Michel could transfer from the Order at Ansburg to the Order at Ostwick. She had all but too quickly shut him down because ‘Templars are not supposed to fraternize with mages’ let alone be related to those they protected the world from. 

It is strange that not a month’s time ago the Trevelyans hosted the Ostwick Order at their estate for a feast in a show of gratitude for performing their sacred duty and protecting their homeland from apostates. He had laughed alongside them, shared a hearth with them, and even bested one of them in a fencing duel. Now they act as if that history does not exist, that these are not the same men and women that he at times grew up alongside when his family had been generous. Here, however, he is not that young noble, he is not Lord Matthieu Trevelyan. He is just another threat to Thedas, just another abomination waiting to happen, just another mage. 

He doesn’t want this. He never has. He has heard a lifetime of horror stories about these places, and while not every one had been realized yet, it has only been a week. He’s still not entirely sure what a Harrowing entails, but he’s learned what happens when an apprentice fails and has seen the bloodied body carried away in the night. He’s also bore witness to those he might have once called his friends harass apprentices, which doesn’t leave the banging and wailing that he’s heard behind closed doors to the imagination. 

He thinks he’s always known though, not everyone can make the hearth flames dance. He never had reason for anyone else to know, has kept the sparks in, and done his best to conceal it all. It would be a scandal if the pious and virtuous House Trevelyan, friend to Templars and lover of the Chantry, produced a mage. Yet, they did. Not that anyone would know, he promised himself that, but he got older and his magic only yearned to be expressed more and more. Then it found its expression, _over Dorian blighted Pavus._

Matthieu scowls as he opens what had been the fourth letter from the other mage this month. While he knows he shan’t reply, he takes a small amount of pride in the fact the Altus is so desperate. He knows he shouldn’t be spiteful, that him being sent to the Circle wasn’t Dorian’s fault and the mage was only the catalyst for his magical outburst. Yet, whenever he thinks of that night he cannot help but be full of anger towards his friend and frustration over what could have befallen. 

It is no secret, as far as his family went, that Matthieu had preferred the company of men. He had thought he just didn't know how to talk to women, being raised with six other boys, but it hadn’t been the case. They’d probably met every eligible aristocrat's daughter in Thedas, and while he was charmed, he felt nothing but platitudes of friendship towards them. His proclivities never became a problem beyond joking on his siblings behalf, as it was improbable that he would inherit the Trevelyan estate as the seventh son to begin with. Now that he was a mage, however, it was impossible. Even if he did fancy women and wanted to bear sons like a good Free Marcher noble, he couldn’t now, as any children born to Circle mages were taken into Chantry care and away from their parents. It was certain that his part in the Trevelyan bloodline would end with him, but he had six other brothers who could carry it forth. 

Subsequently, it was also no secret that he had started to prefer the company of his best friend in more than just a platonic fashion. If he had a gold coin for every time his brothers had teased him about “his strapping young Altus” he would have more money in his robes than the Trevelyans had in their coffers. Whether or not the mage in question knows, however, is another matter entirely. Dorian is not subtle, to be sure, and had on many occasions expressed affections or flirtations toward the young Lord Trevelyan. This would be a thrilling prospect if he didn’t perform the same activities toward every other handsome person he happened across, other than, of course, that wretched Herathinos girl. He has never been sure if it was a game or a joke to Dorian and if Dorian had any knowledge of his minor infatuation. If he did, the blow Dorian delivered at the ball would only hurt all the worse.

They had not seen one another for the better half of a year and Seamus’s wedding was the last night they were to see each other for a while. Matthieu realizes that his outburst had very much confirmed that outcome until further notice and perhaps forever. As the thought crosses his mind, he deflects it, trying to place it on Dorian once more. Dorian, who very possibly could have been aware of his affections and spurned him to chase after a pretty Vael face instead of spending one last evening with his closest friend. Dorian, who he would have told about his magic that evening and who could have taken him to Tevinter instead of being locked up in a tower.

Matthieu, for lack of better words, was terrified before he came to the Circle, and had been for over a year. One night, when dreaming in the Fade he had encountered his brother Michel, dressed up dashingly in Templar regalia. When he had gone to play with his brother, it had metamorphosed itself into some sort of evil spirit or demon and his dream had quickly turned into a nightmare. When he awoke screaming, he had found flames erupting from his hands, catching the linens on fire and smoke started filling the room. The last he remembers everything faded to black and he woke up in the estate’s infirmary to his family awaiting his return on bated breath. They all asked what had happened and he could not let them know the truth, so he lied. He claimed that he must have forgotten to put out the hearth, which the servant had fed far too much wood to before he slept. He isn’t sure if everyone believed it, but irregardless the servant was sacked and Matthieu was moved to chambers without a hearth for his own safety.

Ever since, the magic was getting stronger each day, and it was manifesting itself on the daily and not just in response to nightmares. At first, the flame-resistant clothing he had his new valet procure worked and his family was all too willing for him to wear it for a time. When he felt angry, upset, or distressed, and the magic flowed to his fingertips he would press his hands firmly to the clothing to insulate the energy he was exerting. But sometimes that was never enough, and a flame or two would spew in private, aching to be heard. 

He had always hated smithing and found the art of crafting weapons tedious, but as the magic got worse the smith and the forge became his friend. He could feed the forge fires when no one was looking and if a spark or two flew nothing would seem out of place. But he knew it was only so long before that would fail him and he would be found out, which is why he wanted to tell Dorian that night. 

He dreams often in the Fade of what it would be like to travel to Minrathous, to study with Dorian at one of the Imperial Circles. Then perhaps, he could keep his dear friend out of enough trouble so that Doiran would not be expelled again, or more likely, Matthieu would get expelled with him. They then would be left to their own private tutor’s devices and torment that man beyond compare, all the while honing their ability to become the most powerful magi in Northern Thedas. However, some dreams are not to be. But, perhaps if the Altus followed him to his quarters in the Teyrn’s palace, it could have been. 

The Teyrn’s palace wants for nothing, least of all privacy, as every corner one rounds and things one does, there are always servants present and spies afoot. It is no secret that Ostwick and Markham are on increasingly unfriendly terms diplomatically and that of all times to stage a coup or a killing, a time of celebration where one expects it the least is the most favorable. In his quarters where the windows were much too wide and the interior to his chamber was much too visible, a valet was stationed in the hall almost indefinitely. It wasn’t as if he could have brought Dorian there to demonstrate his beginning yet uncontrollable pyromancy without the entire palace knowing, which would have meant the same death sentence he had so graciously been living out today. However, the night of a party was different, it was the biggest social gathering the city-state had seen in a few years. There would have been no one to guard his door or vigilantly watch through his windows, as everyone would be concentrated on keeping the royal family and their guests from harm. That meant he could have told Dorian, but the mage wouldn't give him the time of day. 

With this in mind, Matthieu reads:

> _My Dearest Matthieu,_
> 
> _I cannot help but believe at this point that either those dreadful Southron Circles are censoring your mail or that you are intentionally ignoring me for whatever you think I had done wrong at Seamus’s wedding. It is quite rude of you to be avoiding me so, as I only wish to inquire if you are safe and well-fed, but most importantly if I am still the most dashing mage you know, now that you’ve met dozens more._
> 
> _I do hope to hear word from you soon, as your letters were some of the few ways to make my life bearable, but knowing you, you won’t be able to spurn me for much longer. You know, I am, of course, irresistible._
> 
> _Please try not to burn down the Circle, it would be a dreadful eyesore for your city-state._
> 
> _Your impatient compatriot,_
> 
> _Dorian_

As he reads, Matthieu cannot help but get more and more frustrated with the Tevinter. This letter, so similar to the last, shows neither affection nor care, and certainly no sadness at his loss. He could almost catch a hint of it ‘in inquiring if he is safe and well-fed’ but it is once again overshadowed by some pompous, selfish comment. It’s the same, old, self-deflecting and self-important Dorian Pavus he has come to know. Would it kill him to admit he missed Matthieu or that he feared for his safety? He yearns for something, anything, indicative of a capacity for empathy from the other mage, and in this letter he finds himself, once again, disappointed. 

Before he goes down for his evening meal, Matthieu snaps his fingers. The conjured flame at his fingertips gently set the letter alight, adding to the small pile of ashes on his bedside table. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now he’s just Matthieu who you don’t know, Matthieu flying solo, Matthieu in the Circle by himself. 
> 
> All joking aside, thank you for reading self-indulgent Dragon Age fic about my disaster pyromancer son and his necromancer boyfriend. If you have any feedback, I am open to it as always and thank you for the support in this experimental endeavor


	3. 13 Harvestmere, 9:24 Dragon — 1 Firstfall, 9:24 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of actually saying what he means, Dorian once again represses his feelings only causing more chaos in his life, especially when he faces Matthieu’s eldest brother

Sitting at his desk in the Pavus estate, Dorian cannot help but sigh as he goes through the motions to address yet another letter to the Ostwick Circle of Magi. It had been two months since he had heard from Matthieu, and he had really hoped that the eighth letter would finally get the newfound mage to respond. They hadn’t ever gone this long without talking, and surely the other boy missed him, right?

There’s a letter in the desk drawer that he’s pored over at least a dozen times since he first wrote it a month ago. He gently takes it out skimming it once more: 

> _Matthieu,_
> 
> _I know this letter is not what you would expect of me, however desperate times call for desperate if not embarrassing measures; I miss you, dreadfully. I suspect that I wronged you the night of your brother’s wedding, and I apologize for it. I meant you no harm and wish I could undo it, but the damage has been done. You must despise me right now, but please send me a sign, something, anything to indicate you are well and perhaps not lost to me forever._
> 
> _Dorian_

Upon finishing the letter he puts it back in its place in the desk drawer. There is no new way he can possibly send this to Trevelyan. It is vulnerable, apologetic, and most of all embarrassing. A Tevinter Altus mage shouldn’t be writing demeaning and extremely candid letters to his close friend like a lovesick mabari. He knows he has too much pride, a better fault than most to have, but a fault nonetheless, and he can’t bear the thought of wounding it. He also doesn’t want to wound Matthieu’s opinion of him, but Maker knows it’s already driven into the dirt. However, it’s better to be remembered as the flippant, charming, and self-interested pariah that Dorian appears to be than to leave the other mage imagining the extremely insecure and endlessly lonely outcast he truly was. 

It had truly been unbearable without Matthieu, that which he had admitted in his letters was true. Ever since being kicked out of the Vyrantium Circle, he had barely any contact with people outside of the estate and his private tutor. The magic he has been learning from the Nevarran Mortalitasi was fascinating and all, but the man is extremely dull for his tastes. It is _abundantly_ clear that man spends much more time with the dead than he does the living, and appallingly prefers it. It’s also not as if he can just order the estate’s slaves to talk to him, after all, he has more propriety than that. 

Whenever his father invites Magister Athanir Tilani to the estate, he spends time with the magister’s daughter Maevaris, who is his elder by a few years. After the scandal, he is surprised that his father still negotiates with the Tilanis, but their connections to the Ambassadoria are too lucrative to lose. Maevaris more than makes up for Matthieu’s utter lack of a fashion sense and it is nice to have a _cultured_ confidant when they do talk. Although, she’s to marry some dwarven merchant of House Tethras in the near future, which he expects will fill much of the lady’s time. A pity though, he dreadfully needed to go on another shopping trip to fill the void. 

As he contemplates, the candle on his desk is slowly being spent and Dorian still has neither written a new letter to Matthieu nor addressed the one he should send. He is about to give up before he is struck with an idea. Surely, his parents wouldn’t mind his sudden interest in their annual Antivan trip. Picking up his quill, the mage starts to pen a different letter: 

> _Lord Percival Trevelyan,_
> 
> _I have received no word from your dear brother, I wish to inquire if he will be accompanying House Trevelyan to Antiva for the Satinalia festivities. Lord Halward, Lady Aquinea, and I will be visiting the Montilyets for the holiday, and it would be so horrid if I were to bear it without him. Am I to expect Lord Matthieu will be granted leave from those prisons you call Circles, as I had so wished to see him? Do let him know I’ve found the most garish masks for us to wear together._
> 
> _Dorian of House Pavus_

* * *

As Dorian relaxes in the garden with a fine Rivaini tea blend and a tome on magical theory, he feels completely content. Everyone was far too hungover from the feast and flow of alcohol last night to be up this morning, giving him a moment of much needed peace. Well, as peaceful as he could be when his best friend is due to arrive, after having been out of contact for a suspicious amount of time, and who is likely changed by his time in the Southron Circles. 

He hears someone shout, “Pavus,” startling him, and he is dismayed to find that the blonde approaching him is not the one he has been waiting for. It is, sadly, Percival, the eldest of the seven Lord Trevelyans. Percival’s martial prowess as showcased in his showings and near victories in the Grand Tourney made him the pride and joy of Ostwick and the ideal heir for House Trevelyan. Matthieu, while separated from Percival by many years, often spoke fondly of his brother from Dorian’s recollections, meaning he should be civil and kindly. Setting down his tome and straightening his robes, the Altus and puts on his best forced smile to greet the young Lord, “A pleasure to see you again Lord—”

“Skip the pleasantries ‘Vint,” Percival bites. The mage eyes him curiously not entirely sure what this is about, but he sits up straighter and eyes where his staff is just in case. Percival throws a letter down on the table, “What in the Maker’s name is this?”

“A letter, shockingly,” he replies curtly, earning him a glare from the _slightly_ intimidating man who sits across the table from him, “I believe I was quite direct. It’s an inquiry if your brother would be here for Satinalia, and it seems he is not.”

Percival lets out a sigh, collecting himself, “Is this some sort of game to you?” Dorian stares at him unblinkingly, not quite sure what the man is getting at. 

“I beg your pardon,” the Altus says, trying to conceal his offended cadence. 

“Is you, getting Matthieu sent away and then pouring salt in the wound, a game to you, Lord Pavus?” The Lord Trevelyan questions with more aggression in his tone, clearly upset with the Tevinter for wasting his time. 

Dorian is taken aback, for he certainly is not the reason Matthieu was taken in by the Circle.If anything the Andrastian Chantry should be blamed, not him. He retorts as he lays further back in his chair defensively, “I did nothing of the sort. ”

“That’s not what he told me,” Percival baits with a glint in his eye, knowing he’s plucking at heartstrings.

Dorian turns his nose up saying, “Oh so he’s avoiding me? Splendid. Here I was assuming his mail had been censored or some stuff and nonsense.” He can’t allow Percival to shake him, if he breaks surely Matthieu will hear all about his desperate friend and he cannot have that. He just has to keep pretending that it does not hurt that his dearest friend is consciously ignoring him. 

“You’ve assumed wrong,” Percival continues, trying to crack Dorian’s armor, “We hear from him constantly.” As Percival finishes, he waits in silence to see if Dorian will respond to him. As more and more seconds pass, things become increasingly uncomfortable for all parties involved as the older boy stares at the mage waiting for something. 

Dorian lets out a heavy sigh. Surely it wouldn’t be too harmful to ask a singular question, especially if it is to end this psychological torture, “Is he alright?”

Percival sits back in his seat and crosses his arms, seemingly unenthused by the mage’s _heartfelt_ response,“I’m surprised the cold-hearted magister’s son even cares to ask _that._ ” 

Dorian feels his fingers spark beneath him as they make a small cackle. He’s sure his voice is dripping with animosity as he speaks, but really who could blame him. “Lord Trevelyan, with all due respect, your brother is in fact my closest friend and I his, please do think a little higher of my capacity for empathy.”

“Well, your _closest friend_ does not feel the same way, with all due respect, Lord Pavus,” Percival mimics, meeting Dorian in hostility. 

Dorian feels his hand tense further as magic flows to it, as if to erupt. He takes a deep breath to try and center himself and repress the spark, as to not make things any more ugly, “I would so appreciate it if he would tell me himself then instead of using his big, strong older brother as a mouthpiece. If he has a problem he should address me properly.”

“Well he can’t Pavus, he’s not allowed out. In case you haven’t been made wildly aware, not all mages get to live as freely as you ‘Vints,” Percival snarls, “He can’t go as he wishes, he can’t leave the blighted Circle until he’s Harrowed and even if he survives that, leaving the tower is on a very limited basis.”

Dorian wants to find a witty retort to that, something to truly bite back at the aggressive young man he’s sitting across from, but he can’t. He truly didn’t know the Circle was that serious of a sentence. Sure, he and Matthieu often threw around jests about how the Circles were prisons, and everyone in Tevinter pitied Southron mages for their circumstances, but he didn’t know there was truth to the levity. How is he supposed to have known? All he musters is an embarrassed, “I had no idea.”

“Yeah, well your blissful ignorance robbed our family of him. Matt was never going to become Bann, but he still could have become something,” Percival continues on his tirade, “Now, he’s gonna be worthless in a tower his whole life or turn out to be an abomination. It’s your bloody fault.” 

While with the information on the Circles he understands better why he’s the target of Percival’s verbal assault, he certainly isn’t going to take all of the heat for the unfortunate event, “I am by no means trying to doubt your education Lord Trevelyan, but magic isn’t a common cold. You don’t catch it from people,” Dorian scoffs, regaining the confidence that was but a moment ago lost, “Matthieu has _always_ had the potential for magic, his abilities had likely chosen to manifest in that instant at the ball you are accusing me of.”

As Dorian speaks, he feels something is not right. It couldn’t be as simple as Matthieu’s magic just being triggered in that one instance, if he did it should have exploded out of him. While the flares did cause a nasty sear in his robes, the flames still felt somewhat controlled, which someone experiencing magic the first time would likely not have mastery over. An untrained mage’s emotional outburst could have burned down the palace if he had not been careful. The fact that a single, focused flame was conjured is too suspicious for his taste.

Come to think of it, recently Matthieu had been suspiciously curious about magic, but he had chalked it up to the boy’s studious nature. Perhaps Matthieu was aware of his abilities and kept them a secret from everyone because of the villainization of mages in Southron society? 

* * *

_Dorian lounges on the settee in Matthieu’s quarters with a tome on the ethics of necromancy in hand and a bowl of grapes at his side, trying to enjoy the downtime away from the Vyrantium Circle spent with the Trevelyans. Matthieu, however, is making this extremely complicated. The blonde fumbles around with Dorian’s newest staff. It’s made of a chic dark-colored wood, and had two embossed silver snakes wrapping up the length that both bit into the Veil quartz they were holding up. It is a piece of art that cost no small fortune, but it was for his twelfth birthday after all and even if his father despised him, he still deserved something magnificent._

_Trevelyan swings it about like a savage as Dorian reads until the mediocrity the Altus mage witnesses is too much to bear. Voice dripping with sass, he comments, “It’s a staff Matt, not a jousting pole,” before returning back to his book._

_“Do you mages even need these things?” Matthieu asks, continuing to fool around with the weapon, “Can’t you just, you know… magic?”_

_Dorian pauses and thinks for a second, mentally chuckling at Trevelyan’s mastery of the technical terms of the arcane. “They aren’t necessary per say as I can do this,” He says as he conjures up a small snowball and hurls it at Matthieu without looking in his direction. He tries not to pay attention to the disgruntled noises of the young noble and not break into the laugher he’s trying to stomach, “but they help focus and control our magic.”_

_“So you don’t burn down villages when you’re spooked by nugs,” Trevelyan adds wickedly with a smile, earning him a glare from Dorian._

_“Precisely,” Dorian says._

_“Interesting,” Matthieu quietly says under his breath as he fiddles with the staff, with a curious look on his face. Dorian eyes him curiously until Matthieu gives him a confused look as if to ask what the Altus was staring at. Dorian laughs a bit before returning to his tome and enjoying the comfortable silence with his, strange, if not slightly suspicious friend._

* * *

Kaffas. His best friend was a Maker-forsaken mage, and he was too dull and self-absorbed to figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maker, for the cleverest mage of his age, Dorian can really be a dumbass sometimes.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading this indulgent AU so far and has taken interest! I truly appreciate it and love the feedback as always!


	4. 8 Firstfall, 9:24 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While still getting adjusted to the Ostwick Circle, Matthieu receives word from his brother Percival concerning the young Lord Pavus

Twas not Matthieu’s fault that his Chain Lightning had zapped a Templar’s armor today. How was he supposed to know how to control it? That’s _why_ they sent him to the Circle in the first place, for the Maker’s sake. Thedas acts like you’re a ticking time bomb and when you’re _learning_ to control magic and you make one accident, then suddenly the Knight-Captain is displeased with you. 

He thought he could have tried to charm his way out of Knight-Captain Malon’s wrath, if it wasn’t for the fact that the new Templar Jarroth positively hated him. Malon hadn’t even been in the library when the accident happened, but if he did the Knight-Captain would have vouched that it was unintentional. But no, the _evil mage_ tried to attack him, unprovoked during a class lesson. It made _perfect_ sense.

Thankfully, Knight-Captain Malon took it somewhat easy on him and forbade him from eating. That was the simple part, reciting Transfigurations 1:2 repeatedly to the Chantry sister for an hour on end was the true nightmare. If he wasn’t wildly aware of the fact that “magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him” before this evening, he certainly is now. He swears he’ll start chanting the blasted Canticle in his sleep at any rate. 

That is, if he gets any sleep. Thank the Maker for the _pleasure_ of sleeping in a room of young apprentices every night. Apprentices who are just getting used to the fact that demons will try to tempt you into possession in your dreams. Apprentices who are mere children, haunted by nightmares without parents to console them. It is truly the _ideal_ situation for getting as much rest as possible. 

As the newest apprentice with no magical training aside from repressing it, he is in lessons with the Circle’s youngest apprentices, some whom are half his age. It is almost embarrassing to watch a six year old cast a better barrier than he can, but it all comes in time. However, being the oldest in the cohort designates him as the honorary older brother to some of the magelings. He doesn’t hate the position, as it’s nice to finally be the eldest for once, but he does not appreciate being woken up _every_ time someone has a nightmare. One would _think_ the full-fledged mages would assist, but no. The Harrowed room on the second floor of the tower and the scared apprentices never want to brave the second floor in the dark and all alone. At this rate, he wants to get Harrowed as soon as possible just to get to move upstairs and learn the bliss of a good night’s sleep once again. 

His lessons are proceeding alright, all things considered. Although, it is clear to _everyone_ in the Circle that he will _never_ have the proclivity to be a healer. He’s finding the most luck in the Inferno School of Magic, to the surprise of no one, and while not his strong suit, there is a certain thrill that comes with Storm magic. Like pyromancy, Storm casting is uncontrollable yet invigorating as you feel the shock waves ripple through your veins and escape through your fingertips. He is glad, if nothing else, that the physical act of performing such primal magics is one of the few things that makes him feel alive. 

As he returns from the Circle’s chapel to the apprentice quarters, he finds a letter pressed with the Trevelyan heraldry on his bedside. He does hope the letter is something about Satinalia with the Montilyet family. As much as he hates the revels and debauchery filling the streets of Antiva City each year, he is sad to have missed out on the trip nevertheless. The Circle’s celebration, if one could call it that, was dreadful. They called dinner a “feast” because they were given a minuscule sugar-drizzled lemon cake each and there wasn’t even a gift exchange. It severely lacked masks, feasts, and fools, making him dearly hope that the First Day celebration is better. If it isn’t, he might just throw himself off the Circle tower. 

Matthieu takes out an athame to slip open the letter, careful to not crack the wax seal. It is quite silly really, but he’s been keeping a small collection of the wax seals on his letters. Aside from his signet ring and set of formal clothes from Seamus’ wedding, the House Trevelyan wax seals are all he still has from his family after being brought to the Circle. The House Pavus seals, on the other hand, were melted and mixed in with the ash of the Tevinter’s letters, but that _certainly_ was _not_ his doing: 

> _Dear Matt,_
> 
> _For the love of the Maker, please write Lord Pavus posthaste. I know you are frustrated with him, but he has been stalking me all Satinalia as if following you around will magically summon you hither. ‘Tis fine this once, but I will be your messenger no longer. I know you wish not to speak with him, but I ask you just send a letter of apology to be rid of the mage. Despite what he’s done, you do owe him that much._
> 
> _I do hope things are alright in the Circle and you are finding some sort of companionship. Did they do anything to celebrate Satinalia? You couldn’t imagine the revelry this year in Antiva City. I guarantee you would scold me if you heard what Brahm and I got up to. I know you will say you are glad we couldn’t drag you around this year, but I know ‘tis a lie._
> 
> _We wish you were here too. I don’t think it has hit everyone yet you are truly gone. However, once the festivities end and the fasting begins, I think it will, like that year at the Grand Tourney after Michel left for the Order. Know that mother misses you dreadfully, and that being doted on as the youngest in the family is driving Thom up the wall. I’m sure you’d find his dramatics quite amusing._
> 
> _Write soon, but write the ‘Vint first._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Percy_

The young mage lays back on his bed in defeat. How was _he_ supposed to write Dorian, let alone _apologize_ to him? If his brother was here next to him, he would have asked, “Pray tell, Percy what should I apologize for?” Then, he would try to slap his brother upside the head for being daft, likely earning himself a scolding from mother, but it would be worth it. 

He should be allowed to spurn someone who has wronged him. When Klaus killed the ninety-fourth Pentaghast in line for the Nevarran throne Percy didn’t bat an eyelash. It apparently didn’t matter that the deceased was the brother of one of Brahm’s suitresses, Klaus’ actions were “justified.” Suddenly he isn’t sending letters to the son of a Tevinter magister, that _nobody_ in the family cares for, and Percy is acting like a Blight is upon them. 

He would like to think that Dorian stalking Percy is out of care and concern for his own well being, but he sincerely doubts it. If it were, Dorian should have been less self-important in his letters, then Matthieu might have responded to them instead of ignoring them. It is more likely that the hothouse flower was _so_ used to getting whatever his heart desired and receiving attention that being ignored is a scary and new experience for him. ‘Tis for the best, maybe Dorian would _actually_ grow up and stop being a narcissistic blighter when he learned it could lose him friendships. That is, if Dorian actually cherished his friendship in the first place, which remains to be seen.

Even if he cannot _entirely_ fault Dorian for being stuck in a Southron Circle instead of pursuing study at a Tevinter one, he can still fault him for those dreadful excuses of letters he received. Even if he’s a Northerner, it doesn’t take a prodigy to know that things for Southron mages are terrible. He could have asked and lent a listening ear instead of somehow turning letters to Matthieu into letters about himself. Matthieu desperately wanted to see something serious and he never did. 

At the end of the day, Dorian is still free. In Tevinter, Dorian could summon a vengeful spirit and be expelled from the Vyrantium Circle, and if he did the same here the Templars would execute him on sight. If he didn’t get kicked out again, Dorian could go study at another cushy Tevinter Circle during the day and come home to his parents at night if he wished. Dorian still could be the pride of his noble House, as he wasn’t forcibly incarcerated for Thedas’ protection and disowned by his father for being an abomination. Even if some of his brothers write, he is still being cast off by a father for something he couldn’t control, which is something the Tevinter would never understand. 

That’s why he needed Dorian to be serious, none of this was a laughing matter and having it treated as such only serves to minimize his feelings. Confident he has no reason to apologize for his actions, Matthieu picks up a quill and starts writing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In ninth-century Thedas we write letters, we write letters...
> 
> Honestly, one of the best things about writing fantasy is the epistolary components. Unrelated, but the fact I personally haven't gotten any wonderful epistles from suitors in this time of socially distant slow burn romance is frankly a little hurtful.
> 
> Also, we love having two characters with issues regarding their fathers who don't share their feelings with one another, so that even though they are going through similar experiences the other will never know. I can't wait for in like 18 years for them to realize this dramatic irony...
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has been coming along for the ride with this and supporting me! I cannot thank you enough and cannot wait to keep writing! You're all the best!


	5. 18 Firstfall, 9:24 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian receives Matthieu's letter and relies upon a number of coping methods to try and process his emotions.

Normally Dorian Pavus wouldn’t be out boating with his family on the lake near the Pavus’ estate during wintertime, but they are far enough North that the lake didn’t freeze over this year. Well, his _family_ isn’t boating, his parents sent _him_ out on a boat alone with the slaves to care for him while they remained inside with a cask of mulled wine. Thank goodness for that though, he had wanted an escape from his mother and father considering he _finally_ received a letter from Matthieu after months of waiting. He wished to be alone when reading it and out on the lake was one of the best ways to do so. 

Having just returned to Qarinus from the revelry of Antiva City, his parents wished to reside in their apartments by the lake, instead of going straight home to their estate. It was something about wanting to be away from people after having socialized with Thedosian nobility without pause during their month in Antiva. This morning one of the slaves hand-delivered the letter to him, having just arrived at the Pavus’ lake apartments with the family’s correspondence and some additional necessities. The letter had been delivered to the estate when he was away and Dorian found himself most anxious to read it.

He was certain that his mother and father would hound him about the letter’s contents; They did with most of his correspondence since he was expunged one too many times from the Tevinter Circles. He would have read it immediately, but he knew his parents, so Dorian opted to stash the letter and inform his parents he wished to go boating. Since he knew they would not join him, here he is, holding the letter he has so longed for from his dearest friend. 

Dorian takes an athame out of his belt and gently opens the letter, careful not to crack the seal of the Circle. As if holding an original copy of the Canticle of Transfigurations, he gingerly opens the vellum to read: 

> _Lord Dorian Pavus,_
> 
> _I know you have not heard from me and I am sure knowing you and your self-importance you are expecting an apology from me. If you are, I’m sorry to say that you will not find it here. This is neither an apology nor a sentimental letter to catch up with an old friend; This is a goodbye._
> 
> _In my months at the Ostwick Circle, I have come to realize that I cannot blame you entirely for getting me sent to the Circle. While I wish I could be studying with you and your Nevarran tutor in the luxury of Tevinter, ‘twas never to be. However, I do fault you for your flippancy towards myself and my situation. If a single letter you sent me had nothing to do with yourself, I might have been begrudgingly satisfied, but I did not receive even that._
> 
> _You could not imagine being ripped away from the life you have come to know, only to be monitored every second so that you do not become the abomination Thedas expects. I write to my family, but I know my brothers are trying to hold it together and stay strong for me, especially to make up for father disinheriting me. He says he will not have a maleficar’s stain on the Trevelyan family name, as if it does not matter that I was once his dearest son._
> 
> _All things considered, I had thought you would be the one person who I could confide in who was not tied up in my family politics. Someone who would understand what I have witnessed without being frightened, who could explain things like these nightmares in the Fade and the visits from demons. Someone who I could tell about my fears and would lend a caring ear as the friend you once were. Maybe you never were that friend, and it took my world being torn asunder to notice. However, at one point I believed you might have been and you proved me incorrect, as always._
> 
> _I will admit for a while I was fuming and the thought of you made me want to blow up the Circle tower. But over time that blind anger turned into resent for what you could not, or rather what you would not offer me. I had hoped letter after letter that you would show a shred of concern for me, to show you felt some sort of remorse by my loss. But you didn’t, not in the first letter and not in your eighth. For that, I am not sure I will ever be able to forgive you._
> 
> _Please do not try to contact me at the Ostwick Circle because from here on, your letters shall not reach me. I had confessed to a Chantry sister that I was corresponding with a friend, who just so happened to be a free Tevinter Mage; One who was encouraging me to use blood magic to escape the tower. She naturally told the Templars, I was questioned about my correspondent, and it is likely my mail will be monitored henceforth and all your letters will be intercepted. I know you will take this as a challenge and try to write me under a pseudonym, but know I will not reply. If you have a shred of care for me left in your selfish heart, do as I ask and never write to me again. You know as well as I, it is best to end things here to avoid further hatred and heartbreak._
> 
> _Regards,_
> 
> _The Former Lord Matthieu Trevelyan_

At the end of the letter, a postscript is written in frantic and messy handwriting as if it was added in a flurry at a later time. As opposed to the delicate cursive that decorates the page, it is spattered in ink and bursts with the emotion that Matthieu’s neat and proper handwriting held back for the letter’s length: 

> _Also know I thought of you as my closest friend once, if not something beyond that. You had on several occasions expressed affection beyond friendly platitudes towards myself. I do not know if they were in jest or in actuality, but know they were never untoward or ill-received. I just believe you deserved to know anyhow, since this will be the last you hear of me._

Dorian holds the letter in his hand, unblinkingly. He doesn’t even know where to start. _“Regards?” “Lord Dorian Pavus?”_ This is some sort of ill-gotten jest, surely. He searches and scans for answers in every line of the letter, hoping he can find something indicative of this _not_ being what he knows in his gut it is: a goodbye. He tries to not allow tears well in his eyes. As much as he would _love_ to cry in front of the household slaves and be the talk of the servants quarters, it would be completely unbecoming. 

He really was saying goodbye. Maker, he wishes he would have sent that _blighted_ embarrassing letter to Matthieu. It would have ended this torment and at least an attack on his pride would have ended all this. Percival had told him some of the Circle’s horrors, but he never could have imagined the extent of Matthieu’s fears. He knows what it feels to be constantly watched, although not to the same extent, by his father’s gaze and he certainly knows better than anyone what it means to disappoint one’s father figure. He had not done anything terrible enough to become disinherited yet, but that remained to be seen, he still has a full lifetime to go.

He has never truly loved his parents and their broken marriage, which only bred resentment and alcoholism in their household. He respects his father and wants his approval, sure, but it isn’t exactly a loving or happy family. But the Trevelyans were different. Matthieu treasured his brothers with every fiber of his being and could never stop talking about the so-called “Trevelyan boys’ club” Matthieu kept in touch with Michel even though he’s away at Ansburg’s Order and Seamus and Klaus didn’t bother to. He used to squire, albeit pitifully, for Percival at the Grand Tourney. He would write Dorian essays on Thom’s wit and how he’s hedged a bet with Klaus that Thom would become a University of Orlais professor one day. When he used to visit the Trevelyan estate, Dorian bore witness to the Trevelyan brothers’ inside jokes and pranks on one another. Matthieu must be undone. 

Dorian wants to write the Bann, telling him to take back his son. He wants to say that Matthieu never was and will never be a maleficar, that his son is the best person he’s ever known. He wishes to scathingly tell him how wrong he is about mages. But Dorian knows, in his heart of hearts, that this isn’t his place to get involved. He tried once with Percival and it ended dreadfully which he needn’t be reminded of. It isn’t his fight unless Matthieu allows it to be, and it is _abundantly_ clear that will never be the case. 

Each sentence feels like another cut, digging deeper with every pained word of Matthieu’s wounded soul. He wanted to understand, even if he never expressed it, but apparently that was not good enough. Even if he is willing to try now, that is not to be. Matthieu needed something he found himself unable to provide because of his own pride, self-importance, and narcissism. He hates himself for it. How could he have been so blind to his own friend’s torment? 

A bitter laugh ripples from his lips, wondering if this is why apprentices at the Circles bullied him mercilessly and people never bothered to try and get close to him. Other than Mae, Matthieu was the only to try and get to know who he was behind the flippant façade of the Altus savant of all things arcane. Dorian had so many chances, but he squandered them all. Maybe he was the bastard they called him all along. He didn’t deserve Matthieu’s forgiveness. 

Even if he wants it, he is cut off. He would scoff at the lengths Matthieu took to assure that Dorian would never grace his life again, but he knows that if the other mage did anything less that he would be doing everything in his power to crawl back to Matthieu. _Maker knows he has been trying._ He had been considering going to Ostwick, as one of the Senior Enchanters at the Minrathous Circle was visiting the area on research purposes, according to Mae. He could have charmed his way into the trip, but if he stepped foot in that tower he doubts it will be a warm welcome. Well, it might be warm if Matthieu had gotten good enough at casting Immolate or some other Inferno School spell to incinerate him on sight.

Matthieu wishes to not hear from him, and no matter how much it wounds him, Dorian knows he should follow his wishes. But a part of himself just doesn’t know if he’ll be able to, especially not after _that_ little postscript. Matthieu had _blighted feelings_ for him after all this time and never bothered to mention it, except in a fit of rage and passion that he could never respond to. He must be _so_ proud of himself. 

Dorian couldn’t deny the fact that Matthieu is exceedingly easy on the eyes and the Free Marcher’s blonde long hair in it’s ridiculous little ponytail framed piercing blue eyes well. As was such, on occasion he had been flirtatious with the young lord in a harmless manner that Matthieu would often scoff at or throw him sarcasm for. When Matthieu would traipse him about their estate, dragging the Altus by the hand, he tried not to revel in the feeling for a moment too long. He certainly didn’t cast minor spells in front of Matthieu to watch the way his eyes light up in wonder or get a laugh out of him, for that would have been absurd. 

Dorian lets out another bitter laugh, this one all the more painful than the first. As much as he had been denying it to himself, for some months now, he did feel the inklings of something beyond friendly platitudes towards the youngest Trevelyan lord, not that it mattered. 

He was surprised. Matthieu didn’t seem like the one to prefer the company of men, he never would have expected it. Even if Dorian knew Matthieu did, he never would have acted on it as they were far too young and if they were caught it would be far too dangerous for both of them. However, that doesn’t make the thoughts that they could have perhaps been something one day in a distant future any easier. He hates this. He hates Matthieu for sending this and telling him this of all things, on top of everything else in this blasted letter. 

Dorian feels all the heat in his body race to his fingertips, as his forefinger comes alight with a small flame unintentionally. The gentle flame’s burning sears the edges of the vellum, eating away at some of its blank space. It all doesn’t register for a moment; how could it when he was so blinded by his emotions. But the sparks crackling sounds and the growing flame in his hand bring him back to reality

Upon seeing what his subconscious mind has driven him to do, he panics and drops the letter on the boat’s deck. He casts Winter’s Grasp on the paper to quell the flames before he falls to the hard deck floor. He gingerly picks up the frozen sheet before him, thankful all the words are preserved even if one edge of the vellum has burnt away completely. He places it on the coffee table across from the settee with a sigh, hoping the frost will melt away without smudging the ink. 

He then stares at his hand: the instrument that almost destroyed the last thing he will likely ever receive from his dearest friend and object of his recently realized affections. He knows why he did it, but is thankful he could bring himself out of it. He could never forgive himself if he had incinerated the thing, heart-wrenching as it is. He feels himself keep glancing towards the glistening parchment on the table, hoping on another read he might find the answer, _any answer._

No! He cannot process this anymore, feeling the sting of tears, that he didn’t know he was shedding, as they fall down his face. He will not be undone by this. He won’t allow it. As lovely as it would be to be possessed by a Rage or a Despair Demon this afternoon, it would probably be best not to become an abomination today. It would really ruin his family’s lake holiday and he’s sure the slaves with him would be thoroughly punished for it, even if they had no part in it, which he doesn't want. He sighs, thinking to himself he might as well deal with it the only way his parents taught him. 

“Athras,” Dorian calls, wiping his tears off on his gauntlet, as a younger brunette elf with the vallaslin of June on his face comes over. Athras was one of his father’s recent acquisitions, as Lord Halward Pavus wanted to expand their estate’s holdings. The magister was taking half of the family slaves from their Qarinus estate to their Minrathous apartments more often, especially due to Magisterium’s deliberations surrounding escalating conflicts with Seheron. He had said they needed more bodies to help Lady Aquinea and her irrational tendencies to redecorate their estate when exceedingly bored and inebriated, hence Athras. 

“Yes, milord,” the elf responds, standing at attention for his beck and call.

“Fetch a bottle of wine from the stores, will you?” he asks, relaxing further in the settee when Athras nods in agreement. He would not usually be inclined to drink unless it was a holiday, but all things considered, it is just _that_ sort of day. 

* * *

“I knew you would break hearts one day, darling, but I didn’t expect it to be _this_ soon,” Maevaris Tilani laments as she lounges in an armchair in her quarters, reading Matthieu’s letter intently. Across from her on the settee is the uncommon sight of Dorian Pavus, dramatically sprawled out in frustration. After the Pavuses returned from their getaway at their lake apartments, Dorian wasn’t sure what to do with himself as he couldn’t talk to his parents about what had come to pass. 

Even should he want to talk, if he got emotional he would be lectured on why his emotions were unbecoming of a future magister who could not show the cracks in his armor to all who sought to tear him down. It would never be about Dorian, it would be about what Dorian could learn from this to grow into a better heir to House Pavus. That is, forgetting the fact that his dear friend happened to express romantic intentions towards him, which would cause any number of problems should his parents find out. He wasn’t sure if his parents knew yet, that he preferred the company of men, but he certainly didn’t want them to find out. Fancying men means no child-bearing compilation which means no heirs, which was one of the gravest sins, he as an Altus mage and a Pavus could commit.

He oft wishes he could be the second son and not be the only one with the potential to carry on the family line and name. But his parents were far too old now and even then mother was lucky to have survived her pregnancy. When they were blessed with a son it would seem all would be well in their little world, but of course, they ended up with him. Born and bred to be the perfect mage, take over his father’s seat in the Magisterium, but unwilling to get married and produce an heir. Not that they knew that yet, but it would definitely be indicated by Matthieu’s hastily penned sentiment at the end of the letter. He considered tearing it off to show them, but if this is the last correspondence he would be receiving from Matthieu, he intends to preserve it. Especially after his little charade on the boat in attempts to be rid of it, which ended in a rather unfortunate and disturbing hangover.

So that’s how he ended up at the Tilani Estate with his dear friend, Mae: The one person in Tevinter he could trust as his confidant and a steadfast friend. This week she was supposed to choose flower arrangements for her wedding, so he was pleasantly surprised she cleared her schedule today to help in his time of personal crisis. She still had an evening outing with her fiancé, but he dearly wishes his moping will not last until then. Mae is a charming young woman and he hopes that Thorold knows how lucky he is in marrying her, for she may be the envy of the Imperium one day. Having grown up alongside her at Magisterium events and gatherings in Qarinus, they had become fast friends, despite her being a few years his senior. He also is glad they had so much in common, even if it is some of the said things are unfortunate. Mae also is unable to produce heirs for the Tilani or Tethras line, so she understands the plight and subsequent familial drama surrounding it all, making him feel less alone. He is truly grateful to have her, despite her being like an unbearable older sister to him at times. 

“ _Please_ , I didn’t ‘break his heart’ if anything _he’s_ the offending party here,” Dorian says with a scoff as he sits upright on the settee. He absentmindedly pops peeled grapes into his mouth, hoping to soothe his heartbreak with the finer things in life: gossip, propriety, and luxury goods. It isn’t working. 

Maevaris looks at him with a narrow gaze, as a disappointed older sister would, pitying his situation without absolving him of his faults or guilt. “He spelled it all out very clearly. He’s clearly hurting,” she says gently nodding her head, which flounces her golden locks.

“Well, if he would let me help him I would, _but_ he refuses,” He says crossing his arms and staring up at the ceiling. He’s had his time to process that letter and read it hundreds of times by now. He laughs to think he’s almost become numb to it by now, having released every wretched sob from his body in the cover of night for the past few evenings. He can be almost flippant about it now, at least outwardly to Maevaris to prove he’s not a shell of his former self, even if that’s what he feels like on the inside. 

In moments like this, his resolve against letting bygones be and accepting Matthieu’s request fails him. He wishes he could go to Ostwick and knock the young mage upside the head for this nonsense. He was earnestly going to apologize to Matthieu, he had a new letter written and everything, after having met with Percival in Antiva and heard his side of the story. If Matthieu waited but a day later to send his scathing farewell they wouldn’t be here. 

If only he could send that letter, maybe Matthieu was lying in a fit of passion, surely he couldn’t mean it. But if he did, he’s sure that one of the Trevelyan boys will hunt him down for it. Klaus has already slain a Pentaghast and become the ire of Nevarra, what is stopping him from assailing Dorian in Tevinter. 

This is the constant debating of his internal dialogue, unsure and unresolved in his decisions. His heart says don’t write and his brain says to. It is honestly _quite_ annoying. Perhaps he should ask the external voice of reason here. He lets out a heavy sigh, “Do you think I should write to him?” 

“I think it’s best you stop chasing him, it’ll only make things worse,” Mae says with a heaviness to her tone. She doesn’t seem happy to be telling him what she is, but she knows it’s right. He’s not happy with clever little Mae siding with his heart either. “I know it’ll be hard, dear heart, but surely you can get on without him.” 

“But I find myself without friends,” Dorian says, running a hand through his hair in frustration, “Maker knows who I’ll talk to.” 

Mae scoffs at him while checking her fingernails, “I must say, that’s quite the slight to your present company.” He looks at her with wide eyes, a bit taken aback by the witty retort, but then again it is Mae. As hard as it may be in the moment to counter her jest, he tries his best to rise to the occasion. 

“Mae, my dear, I would think you would know that present company is excluded. Even so, you’re still marrying your _precious_ Thorold,” He loves the woman, but if he has to hear her ramble about how her fiancé’s hair is the perfect shade of ginger or how wonderful being wrapped up in his arms with the feeling of his beard on her face is, he might set the curtains alight. She was so sweetly, albeit disgustingly, in love with the dwarf and they were only _just_ engaged. He cannot bear to imagine her infatuation once they’re wed. He knows Mae won’t disappear from his life, but Dorian knows better than anyone that three is company, and he’s not sure Thorold would be the type to indulge in listening to his woes about strapping young men and heartbreaking blonde magi who definitely _aren’t_ from the Ostwick Circle. 

“It’s just marriage,” she says waving him off, “it’s not as if I’m moving to Fereldan.” Now _that_ would be a sight. Maevaris Tilani in Fereldan amongst all those dirty dog lords and Southron barbarians? Perish the thought. If either of them found themselves moving to the South it _surely_ would be the end of the world. 

“Just marriage? Please run that by me again in a few months, shall you?” Dorian says, laying himself back on the settee nonchalantly, hoping Mae won’t pick up on his insecurity. If they change the conversation to her, he won’t have to deal with, well, his feelings.

“Come now, you and I both know you’re just bitter about your doomed romance with your wayward mage,” she says, rolling her eyes and cutting straight to the point. _K_ _affas._ The other Altus knows him well. Yes, he is bitter anyone could see that, but “doomed romance” certainly was taking it too far. It wouldn’t have been doomed if he hadn’t messed everything up. 

“As if, one could call it that,” Dorian says with resolve. He can sense a twinge of disappointment in his voice seep through. The Altus doesn’t know where it comes from but hopes his dear friend won’t pick up on it. He also won’t give Mae the satisfaction of knowing the object of his recently realized boyish affections. “He is — or was — just a friend.” 

“That’s not what he said,” she says baiting as she dangles the letter over him with a sly smile on her face as he feels the blood rush to his face. He almost conjures a snowball to throw at her, as he would with Matthieu when he was cross with him. However, Mae would come back at him with twice the thunder. She looked fetching in her robes and if he dared ruin them before her outing with Thorold, the mage just might Immolate him. 

He decides simply groaning and using his flair for the dramatics is the better call here. After all, the battle has been lost. He sits up on the settee asking, “Can you believe the bloody bastard thought it was a good idea to just throw _that_ in there at the end?” 

“I can believe it, dear heart, it’s on the page,” she says with a smug grin on her face, looking altogether _too_ pleased with herself. He can practically feel sparks race through his veins and to his fingertips again. 

“Vishante kaffas,” he says, giving his _charming_ companion a death glare. Dorian lets out a sigh trying to let his slight annoyance with her and the subsequent magical rush subside, “But, you know what I mean right? He—”

“Added that last bit out of anger to spite you,” She says to complete his thought. 

“Exactly,” he mutters, the clear and direct words hitting him a bit harder than he anticipated. Running a frustrated hand through his hair he mumbles, “Maker, sometimes I just want to Immolate him.”

“Careful darling, you don’t want to singe your locks. That would be the _real_ tragedy.”

“Right you are, my dear,” Dorian groans, theatrically flopping face-first into the settee cushions, fully ready to wallow in his grief for the next few hours, if not weeks. Maevaris stifles her laughter at the young mage acting like more of a child than he is. What can he say, he has always had a flair for the dramatics. When he ignores her coaxing “Dorian?” for the third or so time, he hears her sigh as she kneels on the floor next to him, meeting his far-off gaze.

Maevaris offers him a sad smile, trying to provide the comfort he so desperately needs, “Would it cheer you to go shopping, dear heart? We can go to that tea merchant and arcane bookseller you so adore at the market.” 

He gives her a nod, trying to regain his usually flippant composure. He musters a small smirk to flash his faux sister, “And here I thought you enjoyed seeing me so raggedly depressed?” 

“Who’s to say I don’t?” She says, throwing him a smirk as she gets up. When she does, she straightens her electric blue robes out and gently dusts off her decorative feather pauldrons. The woman is always the pinnacle of style. As she leaves the room, she urges, “Come now, I’ll send for the carriage.” 

Dorian gets up from the hole he’s imprinted in Mae’s settee and checks himself in the mirror to adjust his hair. It’s a shame she insists they leave immediately for this spontaneous adventure, but she and him both know if she doesn’t insist he wouldn’t be leaving at all. He does have a Matthieu-sized hole in his heart to fill and Mae is the only friend he could pester about this. She is quite literally his _only_ friend, but that’s beside the point. Maybe a distraction is the thing he needs, and what better way to do it than blow his father's finances on tea and books to drown his sorrows in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maevaris Tilani and Dorian Pavus are found family who have a sibling-like relationship. I will not take any criticism on this and I can't wait for them to reform Tevinter together in DA4. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all of the positive feedback I have received so far with this and for everyone supporting me in this! I appreciate you all more than my heart can tell.


	6. 30 August, 9:28 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years have passed, and Matthieu has become a Harrowed mage of the Ostwick Circle. He reflects on what has come to pass and his slow separation from his former nobility status and those associated with it.

As Matthieu awakes to the sun’s blinding light in the mages’ quarters, things seem strangely larger and quieter. As he sits up in his bed, Matthieu realizes he is not in the apprentice quarters, remembering the events that had just transpired.

It had been four years since he had joined the Ostwick Circle, admittedly not by choice, and as of last night, he had become a Harrowed mage and full member of the Circle. Even if his head is a bit foggy in the moment, the signet ring on his finger proves it and that he had passed the dreaded assessment. A number of other apprentices he had been trained with, hadn’t been so lucky.

In the Fade, Matthieu found himself in the throne room of the Trevelyan Estate on Wintersend. His whole family, including Michel who was off in Ansburg and Brahm who was off wooing Nevarran women, were together around the hearth once more. Even the Bann welcomed him with open arms, despite disinheriting him and beckoning Matthieu to lay down his staff and join in the festivities. The local performer’s guild seemed to be putting on a pastoral play about the Maker and the ale was freely flowing. It had been perfect; too perfect.

He had realized he crossed paths with a rather tempting and convincing desire demon, who thought it was apt to manifest his desire to reunite with his family and go back to the normal he left behind when the Circle took him. It was in all honesty, quite rude. He wanted to be greeted by the once warm smile of his father. He wanted his brothers to scramble to sit next to him, all having desperately missed him. He wanted his mother to scold him for his updo, take out his small ponytail, run her fingers through his hair, and soothe him to sleep like she used to. He wanted them back.

But, he knew then, as he knows now, that dream will never be more than a dream. Trying not to let it overtake him, he pulled the fire from the hearth into a Firestorm to rain down upon the false bodies of his loved ones. As he watches them begin to burn, he tries not to lose control of the spell and become vulnerable to possession or even worse death in the Fade which would render him Tranquil. But the desire demon didn’t make it easy, as she transformed in front of him into individual members of his family, who melt in his wake and beg for mercy he wants to give, but knows he cannot.

She eventually revealed her true form to him, and he had fought tooth and nail with her, as he hurls Fireballs and she slings Winter’s Grasps in his path. What felt like hours later, she fell to a final Immolate and he was relieved from physically entering the Fade. For a brief moment, he’s surrounded by Templars, First Enchanter Evelyn, and Senior Enchanter Iustus in the waking world and then all-encompassing darkness. Then, he woke up; so here he is now. 

Trying to not read too far into his Fade experiences, Matthieu gets up to change into his morning robes. Seeing the messy pile of all his things on his desk, he realizes he has a full dresser, mirror, and desk to himself now. He chuckles a bit thinking to himself how he is  _ truly _ living in the lap of luxury now. A few years ago he would have pouted about the lack of privacy and how his quarters used to be larger than that of apprentices’ combined at the Trevelyan manor. However, now, this ‘upgrade’ to a space the size of a guest washroom is a life changer. 

He gingerly folds the disheveled robes and places them atop his dresser and makes a pile of his few keepsakes, such as letters, wax seals, and the like. In the pile, he finds the only remaining things he has from his life as an heir to House Trevelyan: a signet ring, a gold-trimmed tunic, and a coronet. He had these things, only by chance considering he wore them the night of his capture.

Matthieu looks around the room and when he finds no one is around places his coronet atop his head, which is out of place compared to his faded robes. He looks in the mirror and it’s almost laughable. He goes to place the signet ring on his finger but realizes his hand has pledged a new allegiance and as should he. He is a full member of the Ostwick Circle of Magi now, he is no longer a true Trevelyan. 

He unfolds the tunic, which is much too small for him now anyway, to wrap the coronet and signet ring in. When he does, a small crystal falls out of its pocket. It’s a magical non-melting block of ice with a miniature lightning bolt dancing inside. He had received it six years ago in Qarinus thanks to Dori— _ Lord Pavus’  _ magical talents. 

* * *

_ In a small café overlooking the docks of Qarinus, Matthieu lays draped on a settee with a chilled tea and a pastry filled with honey and nuts. As he tries not to get crumbs all over his new satin doublet, he closely watches Dorian play wisp darts with a close family friend, Maevaris Tilani. _

_ “Your aim is dreadful, my dear, do at least try to keep up with me,” Dorian says with a smirk on his lips and a twinkle in his eye as he hurls a wisp dart near the dartboard’s eye. She lets out a disgusted noise as Dorian sends him a cocky smile.  _

_ Matthieu simply rolls his eyes at the other boy’s antics. “You know, being showy isn’t very becoming Dor,” He says in between a mouthful of pastry.  _

_ “If I wanted a lecture I would have asked my father,” Dorian counters as he throws another dart, this time skewing off target. Mae laughs a bit and the younger Altus shoots her a glare.  _

_ As Mae conjures her wisp dart, Matthieu finds this an apt time to continue prodding Dorian. He is not letting the mage spar without a fight, “And if I wanted a magic show, I would have asked.” _

_ “Then why don’t you? We both know you’d want one,” Dorian says, slightly waggling his eyebrows at the Free Marcher. Matthieu would be a fool to admit he didn’t adore watching Dorian harness the arcane so freely. That being said, he would never admit it to the mage.  _

_ “Rubbish. You—” Matthieu attempts to scold Dorian before he is enchanted by a small Energy Barrage in the sky. He watches as sparks coming off the smaller bolts delicately fizzle out and rain down like stars. The largest bolt is struck with a Winter’s Grasp as part of it is captured within the ice. As it falls back down to the earth, Matthieu catches the crystal, cradling this seemingly magical anomaly in his hands.  _

_ Matthieu doesn’t even notice Dorian approaching behind him until he hears the mage whisper, “Liar,” into his ear. Matthieu tried to hide the growing flush on his face from the two present Altuses, one of whom is in too close proximity for comfort.  _

_ “Show off,” Matthieu says as he lightly elbows Dorian in the stomach and slips the crystal into his doublet. Matthieu tries to hide the blush on his face in his cup of tea, getting back on the settee in a flurry. He tries to avoid eye contact with the staring mage, looking scandalized by the altercation.  _

_ “By the Maker, could you two stop bickering,” Mae says, sinking another dart into a high scoring part of the board. “I came here for idle gossip and light competition, not to chaperone your rendezvous.”  _

_ He supposes that flusteredly elbowing the boy he had been developing feelings for isn’t the best way to express his, hopefully, reciprocal interest. But it’s not as if he would ever be able to shoot lightning out of his fingertips and impress Dorian, so this would have to do for the time being.  _

* * *

Matthieu thumbs the crystal in his palm as he recalls his few short trips to Qarinus before being taken to the Circle. Matthieu had been enchanted by the omnipresent nature of magic in the city. From the street lamps lit by the Laetan mages to the magically suspended chandeliers in the Altus’ dining rooms, the city was freely always alight with the arcane. He wishes to one day be able to practice one’s magic freely without fear like that, which he shares with the Ostwick Circle’s Libertarian faction. With the first whispers of a new Blight circulating for the past three years, it could be coming any day now, and if Ostwick had to answer the call so be it. They could prove their loyalty on the battlefield as a stepping stone to reach liberation. 

The Senior Enchanter Iustus had once told him that with becoming Harrowed came privileges like getting to leave the Circle for research purposes and on very specific and necessary occasions, visits with family, once one proved themself. It’s an exciting prospect certainly if his relationship with his family did not deteriorate month to month. Last year, Percy wrote him on his birthday while he was in Starkhaven so their father, who had forbidden contact two years ago with the disinherited mage son, would not know. 

As expected, Thom is to study at the University of Orlais and living with some cousin of their mother, Seamus is awful at being the consort to Teyrn Maldwyne’s daughter, and Brahm is off dragon hunting with his Pentaghast wife. Michel is still in Ansberg’s Templar Order as a Knight-Corporal, and Percy is still serving as their father’s seneschal. Most surprisingly, Klaus is a Chantry Brother so as to not stray further from the Maker’s Light after dueling and killing his fourth lower noble. In Kirkwall, of all places, which seems to be the only Free Marcher state he isn’t wanted in. 

They all are continuing their lives without him as if their youngest brother had not been a part of their lives for over a decade. Other than Percy, who he decides to write a letter about his Harrowing to at the seneschal’s Starkhaven apartments to avoid father’s ire, they are gone. It hurts, but that’s what Senior Enchanter Iustus and Enchanter Rosalind told him to expect. He’s still struggling to see the Circle as his home now, and the Libertarian Fraternity as his family, but he has to make the effort. He prays to the Maker being a full mage of the Circle would help. 

The dearth of letters appalls him still, and as he turns the crystal over in his palm once more, Matthieu wonders if Lord Pavus ever wrote him despite his insistence. He supposes he will never know. He wonders if the mage regrets never truly caring for him after he had been taken away. It still confuses him that the man who made this beautiful trinket and charmed him hook, line, and sinker, turned out to be such a pretentious and self-important prick. While the Circle hasn’t been as terrible as he expected, it isn’t exactly a luxury apartment overlooking hanging terraced gardens. He’s seen good people die under the Templar blade, some rightfully so and some not, and he could have become one of them last night. 

Decisively, Matthieu wraps the crystal in the gold-trimmed robe along with his signet ring and coronet; the remnants of a past life. A life that ended the day he joined the Circle and begun anew, not as a noble or a brother, but as a figuratively orphaned mage. Here, there were no handsome young men to sweep you off your feet and blood connections to call your own. He scoffs at the thought that Lord Pavus still has a family name, a father, and a mother in his cushy Minrathous apartments and Qarinus estate. 

The Pavus prodigy is probably a fully ranked Enchanter at the Minrathous Circle by now, being groomed for the Magisterium and teaching apprentices how to shoot lightning from their fingertips. He could freely practice the arcane, find love, and travel the countryside without Templars with one hand on their swords following at all times. He’s sure the spoiled mage wants for nothing while he wants for almost everything, and quite frankly, some days he wishes that he did more than just scald the mage’s robes that dreadful night four years and ten days ago. If he ever crosses Lord Pavus again, he wonders if he shall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very much struggling with whether to hard cut/time-skip to the Redcliffe Chantry 9:41 Dragon here or if I should to some periodic chapters like this with 3-4 year time skips until then about Dorian, his debauchery streak, Felix & Alexius, the magical conversion therapy attempt, and all that jazz and Matthieu becoming an Enchanter, Libertarian Fraternity of Enchanters involvement, becoming Inquisitor and whatnot. 
> 
> Either way, the material is gonna get in there at some point, it's just either like in flashbacks/revealed to each other in the Inquisition plot in retrospect, or before to like help with the pacing as they become exceedingly broken people™
> 
> If anyone has thought on that or just this whole escapade in general I'd love to hear them and thank you for the support thus far! You know where I'll be.


	7. 12 Drakonis, 9:41 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been seventeen years since Matthieu had first entered the Ostwick Circle. Since then, he's found himself an Ostwick Enchanter, Rebel Mage, and now the unwilling Herald of Andraste. Inquisition business brings him to the Redcliffe Chantry and needless to say, he's in for an unexpected surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am dreadfully sorry this took literally forever for me to post. I had been torn about jumping to Inquisition or doing some filler time-skips of Dorian and Matthieu's trauma™. I think this worked better for me, and don't worry, we'll get all that spicy trauma in flashbacks. Without further ado, here's more of this time and a half of a fic.

When the recently crowned Herald of Andraste, Matthieu Trevelyan entered the Redcliffe Chantry because he was “in danger” according to Felix Alexius, he was thoroughly convinced that Felix lied. The fade rift present was no issue, having just closed one on the road to town, but there was a _much_ bigger problem Felix did _not_ tell him about: the man in the Chantry. 

When the pyromancer hears the words, “Good you’re finally here. Now, help me close this, would you?” uttered with such sarcasm and a voice he distantly remembers like a far off memory, he has a gut feeling as to who the preposterously dressed man is. But out of the corner of his eye in combat, he sees the man’s magical technique as he elegantly hurls small fireballs out of a staff he clearly has mastery of. He tries to ignore the familiar laughs crossing the other man’s lips as the mage tears through a Lesser Terror demon with a well-timed and executed Chain Lightning spell. It cannot be _him._

Clearly, not in the headspace to be taking down said rift, he doesn’t notice the Lesser Terror who had disappeared into the ground and came up to strike him, trying to dig its talon-like fingers into his flesh. He’s knocked off his feet and onto his back roughly, bracing himself for the strike but it never comes. that Sera wedges in the back of its head and ghoulish scream tells him all he needs to know as the demon disintegrates back into the rift.

Getting off the ground, he casts a Flashfire on the nearest demon. He’s only _a little_ irritated it will not enter a panicked state. He needed something else, demon or not, to take part in his current mental gymnastics and state of impending terror. Familiar battle cries of “Maker Take You” from Cassandra and “Snuffed It” from Sera behind him indicate things, for all intents and purposes, are in the party’s favor. He eyes the Lesser Terror approaching him from the side, but it is paralyzed in its tracks by the Lightning Bolt originating from the mage on the other side of the Chantry’s staff. Stepping back, he Immolates the ground in front of him, burning the demon until it fades away. 

As a bolt from Bianca whizzes past his ear, Matthieu fumbles in the other direction and out of Varric's crossbow’s path, so he won’t get hit and so he can get closer to the rift. From a distance, he channels inferno magic, feeling the heat move through his fingertips, and out of the staff he’s wielding to do damage on the last remaining demon from afar. Cassandra bashes the demon mercilessly with her shield, which when compounded with the damage of the two mages and the two archers, quickly takes it down. Its shriek is music to his ears as the rift expands above him. Mattieu raises his pulsing hand to the green tear in the Veil to close it.

Matthieu feels the stare of the other mage, who is trying to pick him apart from the fabrics of his robes to the Ostwick Circle signet ring on his finger. Finally, out of the heat of battle, Matthieu also takes a good look at the other man. While the years had no doubt changed him, the birthmark, piercing eyes, strong nose, and peacockery it could be nobody else. _It’s him._

In an instant, the floodgates of memory open. Wisp darts in Qarinus. Reading _The Malefica Imperio._ Boating together on the Anitivan Coast. Sharing a tent on the Trevelyan hunting trip. Things he hadn’t thought about in years fill his mind. Joking hand kisses. Cheering together at the Grand Tourney. Besting the mage with a rapier. Being dragged by the hand through the Gardens of Minrathous. Stargazing on top of the family estate. 

Running the other man again with his eyes, Matthieu stops as they fixate upon the Altus’ right shoulder. A thought singularly emerges fire. Seamus’ wedding. Dorian spurning him. The singular spurning that led to him being sent to the Ostwick Circle of Magi. In that same Circle of Magi, he had immense trouble adjusting to, having been torn asunder from his family and best friend, but Dorian didn’t care. The Altus kept ignoring his emotions, kept being self-centered, kept being selfish, kept being _Dorian_.

If Dorian hadn’t been distracted by handsome faces, he could have been a free mage in Tevinter. He would not have been one who was kept under lock and key in solitary confinement for endeavoring to free himself from the Chantry’s shackles. He could have attended Klaus’ funeral after the Kirkwall Chantry went up in smoke without having the First Enchanter claim things were too dangerous and he was a liability. If he didn’t shame his family at the party because of Dorian, his family wouldn’t have disinherited him. He wouldn’t have been responsible for the Tranquilization of one of his nieces and the death of the other at the Conclave. A gathering he would have never attended, mind you if he wasn’t sent to the Circle, to begin with.

But, here he is. He’s an ex-Circle mage with nobody who cares for him and nothing to his name. He’s leading an organization he doesn’t understand as the Herald of a prophet he doesn’t believe in. And the fault lies at the feet of the wretched man in front of him. 

“ _Vishante kaffas_. Matthieu? _”_ The Tevinter utters, with the same wave of realization and bewilderment crossing his features. As his name crosses Dorian’s lips, he feels his shoulders seize up

“Pavus,” he answers coldly. He’s not about to give the Altus the satisfaction. 

“Come now, is that how to greet an old friend?” The Altus scoffs as he puts away suspiciously plain quarterstaff. 

Matthieu stifles a bitter laugh at the mention of the word _friend._ Is _that_ what they were after all this time? The man is delusional. Matthieu feels his body tense up more, if at all possible, as he bites back, “You’re _really not_ the one who should be talking about friendship.” 

The mage looks at him scandalously, as if what he said struck a chord with him. It figures. Only an attack on the Altus’ ever absorbed ego could provoke him. He didn’t miss this.

“And you’re acting like a petulant child,” Dorian says, his lips contorting into a conceited smirk. “ _Still_ misplacing your anger. Ah, it’s just how I remember.” 

“ _Vishante Kaffas,_ Pavus,” Matthieu says, resent dripping from his Tevene. “My anger is directed _exactly_ where it should be.” 

“Herald, I hate to break up this warm reunion, but shouldn’t we be looking for the ‘Vint from earlier,” Varric remarks snarkily. Matthieu looks at him aghast. He had quite literally forgotten that they had an audience. 

“Ah yes, Felix, charming young man. Very dear _friend_ of mine,” Dorian says, apparently keeping up his dramatic airs for Matthieu’s Inner Circle. However, the Tevinter doesn’t seem above emphasizing the word friend to slight him further. Pavus? Being a prick and putting on a show? What else is new. 

“We’re leaving,” Matthieu says affirmatively, trying not to meet the Altus’ eye. He is _not_ doing this today. He is honestly considering siding with the Templars over the rebel mages. It might kill him to go against his ideals, march back to Haven, and tell Cullen, of all people, that he is right. Then again, it couldn’t be much worse than this. 

Sera crosses her arms and lets out a petulant groan, “You’re telling me we fought all these rubbish demons for nothing.”

“We should at least hear what this man has to say,” Cassandra pressures, uninterested in his little tiff with the Altus. Matthieu internally groans, he’s got to love good, old pragmatic Pentaghast. She is going to hate him by the end of all this, he guarantees it. 

“I don’t need to hear anything this man has to say,” Matthieu remarks as he turns to leave the Redcliffe Chantry. 

“Come now Matt, it’s been seventeen years. Surely you are past this nonsense,” Dorian remarks flippantly, stopping the other mage in his tracks. 

Matthieu tries not to focus on the fact that Varric, Sera, and Cassandra’s stares are weighing heavily upon his and Dorian’s spat in the middle of the Redcliffe Chantry. He could have sworn he caught Sera mouth “Matt?” to Varric, her nose wrinkled with confusion. As much as he _adored_ being thrown into a leadership position in a ragtag organization he wanted no part in which was beginning to consume all his waking and sleeping hours, his companions did not need to know everything about his past life. Least of all, about Dorian _blighted_ Pavus. 

He approaches the Altus with irritation coursing through his veins. Matthieu gets up in the Altus’ space and gives him a stern glare. As he speaks, he points at the Altus with a finger that’s emitting a small flame. “You will address me as Lord Trevelyan or as the Herald, _Lord Pavus.”_

In a show of dominance, the Tevinter blows hot air on his finger, putting Matthieu’s flame out. Dorian slyly looks at him, altogether too pleased with himself.

“Lord? And here I thought you lost your claim when the _evil magister_ got you sent away to the Circle,” Dorian says in a voice that’s dripping sarcasm with a dash of resent. 

“Evil Magister?” Varric asks intrigued, “Is there something you’re not telling us, Herald?” As Matthieu throws a piercing glare at Varric, he can practically feel the smirk cross the Tevinter’s face at his expense. If he was younger and less mature, he might have shoved the other mage, but he is a representative of the Inquisition and has to be mature. He is, however, not above verbally assaulting the other mage. 

“May I ask why you are helping us, Lord Pavus?” He asks with a fake smile and the airs of cordiality, before finishing with something more biting, “I thought you hated us Southron heathens. Surely, Fereldan is much too far South for a snake-like yourself.” 

“Well, I, for one, am trying to put the good of Thedas before my own personal feelings, but go on. _Please_ keep using your precious time to slander me, _Oh great Herald._ ” Dorian snaps back. Maker, he forgot how _incredibly_ petty the other mage was. 

Before Matthieu can say anything else, he is torn from Dorian by Cassandra, who seems to have had enough, “State your business, mage.”

“At last, a person with some decorum speaks,” Dorian says with faux enthusiasm and throwing a glare at Matthieu for good measure. “Albeit suspicious of me, but I’ll take it. Magister Alexius was once my mentor so my assistance should be valuable— _as you would imagine_.” 

“And just exactly who are you, Sparkler?” Varric asks, cocking his eyebrow at the Altus curiously. Matthieu almost chokes on air when he hears Varric’s sudden choice of nickname for Dorian. This might be the best thing that’s happened to him all day. It’s just so _him._

Dorian looks utterly scandalized and confused by the form of address, and Matthieu tries to swallow his smile. He had protested his nickname Blue, which was supposed to represent his tattoo and his ceasingly sullen demeanor when he was off duty. He doesn’t love it, but he’ll live with it. But, _Sparkler?_ He would need to thank the dwarf _profusely_ later for this small blessing. 

Dorian takes a moment to recompose himself, which the blonde is enjoying every moment of, before he says, “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. I would have introduced myself sooner if our _charming friend_ hadn’t so rudely assaulted me.”

Oh, back to _this_ are they? So, be it. “We were expecting Felix, _not you_ ,” he says cooly. Noticing the other mage looking slightly bothered by this, a smirk starts inching its way across Matthieu’s face. Matthieu feels the disgust with his attitude radiating off Cassandra like lyrium does a Templar. He was in for a _long_ lecture later about being pathetic at diplomacy and sensitive situations later, but just at this moment, he really couldn’t care less. 

“I’m sure he’s on his way. He was to meet, give you the note, and then meet us hereafter ditching his father,” Dorian says in a more civil and matter of fact tone. It’s altogether suspicious. It certainly doesn’t seem right that one of the few people he was close to before the Circle, just so happens to be caught up in suspicious demon and rebel mage activity in the area. If it was literally anyone else, or just Felix it wouldn’t seem so off, but Dorian Pavus? The hot-house flower in Fereldan? This is _wrong._

“So _you_ set this up?” He asks rather pointedly, trying to get some information out of the Tevinter. “Are you really trying _this_ hard to worm your way back into my life, Pavus?”

“I set this up with the Herald of Andraste. I had no reason to expect _you_ were one and the same,” he says defensively with a huff. “If I had known it was you, _dear friend_ , you wouldn’t be here right now,” Dorian tacks on with a forced smile before turning his attention to the more levelheaded members of the party.

“And I’m supposed to believe that you’re betraying your mentor’s trust,” Matthieu asks, raising his eyebrows at the mage and putting a hand on his chin. Tevinter alliances were never something to be trifled with and usually could end up quite disastrous if tempered with. He had spent enough time in Qarinus to know that. However, the thought crosses Matthieu’s mind that it is indeed Dorian Pavus, he’s talking about. With that, he changes his tune. 

The blonde takes his hand off his chin and puts it to his hip, “Actually wait, you know, I _do_ believe it.” Sera lets out a snort at his dramatics and it’s very safe to assume Varric is smugly holding Seeker Pentaghast back from knocking the Herald out so _actual_ negotiations could occur. 

“Alexius _was_ my mentor, meaning he’s not any longer. Not for some time.” Dorian says putting a hand to his forehead, clearly seeming worn by his antics. Matthieu, however, is not done. He’s spent too many hours than he'd dare admit thinking about how he would slander the selfish prick if they ever met again, and he doesn’t care about the _blighted_ Inquisition right now. If he royally screws up they could work with Cullen’s precious Templars. He would hate himself for it, but he would hate not getting some of these emotions out after seventeen years even more. 

“What did you do to disappoint this time? Summon another vengeful spirit when you weren’t getting enough attention.” He prods sarcastically and for a moment he sees a flash of hurt in the Altus’ grey eyes. Maker, this feels _so_ good. 

“Wow, low blow Herald,” Varric barks at him, and Matthieu smirks at the other mage, knowing something hit. 

“Look, you must know there’s danger. That should be obvious even without the note and my so-called ‘setup’ and I think it’s time to focus on that, is it not?” Dorian lets out a sigh, he’s _very_ done. Matthieu hopes that the wearing down will wound the Altus’ ego and resolve. There’s no plausible reason he couldn’t be a double agent, right?

“Please,” Cassandra groans. 

“Thank you,” Dorian says, “Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mage rebels out from under you, as if by magic, yes? And that is exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

Well, this is interesting, to say the least. In the Ostwick Circles there were rumors of thaumaturgical advancements in the North, but time magic? That is a new one. And more importantly, how did Dorian know? This isn’t exactly making him want to warm up to his dear friend once more. Matthieu cautiously asks, “For someone supposedly betraying your mentor, you know too much.”

“Perhaps it’s because I am conspiring with his son? Maybe this isn’t all some big lie, Lord Trevelyan,” Dorian says in a manner that is both refined and demeaning all at once. “The rift you closed here? You saw how it twisted time around itself, sped some things up, and slowed others down. Soon there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe.” 

He still eloquently weaves his words like how one pulls energy from the Fade. It seems, in some of his better respects, Dorian thankfully had not changed much at all _._

“And why does the bollocks timey-wimey magic matter?” Sera bursts out, causing Matthieu to stifle a laugh at the almost perfect comedic timing. She truly is a treasure and is growing on him despite their large differences in opinion surrounding magic and nobility. Shutting Dorian down in the middle of his spiel though? That definitely endears the elf to him further. 

For what seemed like the hundredth time, the Tevinter looks scandalized, this time at the utter lack of Sera’s magical knowledge or respect. Matthieu snidely thinks that he’s probably upset she wasn’t impressed by his pretentious little sermon as well. _Good_.

Composing himself, Dorian lets out a deep breath and puts on a pained smile, “This, _bollocks timey-wimey magic_ , as you so _fondly_ put it, is wildly unstable, and it’s unraveling the world.” 

Matthieu says with a huff. If this magic is as bad as Dorian says, they might have to work together to stop it. But he isn’t making any promises, not just yet. “And I’m supposed to trust _you_?”

“I know what I’m talking about.” Dorian says affirmatively, this time not taking the bait and careful in his choice of words, “I helped develop this magic. When I was still his apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work.” 

Before he can add some sort of snide comment about the Altus’ incompetence, Dorian starts pacing and questions, “What I don’t understand is why he’s doing it? Ripping time to shreds to gain a few hundred lackeys.” 

He looks _confused_ , which he isn’t quite sure how to take. Dorian had always been quite the dramatist and he expects Dorian had only gotten better at putting on deceptive airs as he aged in the climate he grew up in. It could be just another show, but he genuinely seems concerned about what his mentor was doing. Maybe, he is telling the truth? He can’t quite tell. 

“He didn’t do it for them,” a rather blunt voice says as its owner enters the Chantry. It is Felix Alexius, and it had certainly taken him long enough. He hears Cassandra’s audible sigh of relief from behind him, which is frankly rude considering they _just_ started getting somewhere. She has no faith in him, not that she should, but he’s wounded body and soul all the same. 

“It took you long enough, Dorian says in a relieved tone upon seeing Felix alive and well, “Is he getting suspicious?”

“No, but I shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought he’d be fussing over me all day,” Felix says in a downtrodden tone. He seems used to this and _not_ happy about it.

“My father’s joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists,” Felix says, addressing the party. Apparently, they’re getting right to it then. “They call themselves ‘Venatori.’ And I can tell you one thing, whatever he’s done to them, he’s done it to get to you.” 

“ _Oh, lovely_ ,” Matthieu says dryly. Curse the Maker forsaken hand he didn’t want for getting him into this nonsense. He eyes Felix cautiously, “Alexius is your father, why are you working against him?”

“For the same reason, Dorian works against him. I love my father, and I love my country. But this? Cults? Time magic? What he’s doing now is madness. For his own sake, you have to stop him,” Felix sincerely urges. With every passing moment, he seems to doubt his own bias that this might be some plan, but he still needs more information. Matthieu sighs, supposing he’s glad he’s not the Trevelyan heir. Diplomacy is _kaffas_ and he prays to the Maker he doesn’t have to do more of it anytime soon. 

“It would also be nice if he didn’t rip a hole in time. There’s already a hole in the sky,” Dorian says smugly. Felix doesn’t seem amused, but Varric and Sera certainly are. He almost lets out a laugh, as it was an ace comment after all, but he could _never_ let the Altus know that. 

“Why would he rearrange time and indenture the mage rebellion to get to me?” Matthieu questions rather stiffly, trying to hide his amusement with Dorian. 

“They’re obsessed with you. But I don’t know why,” Felix comments. Matthieu waits for a snide remark from Dorian at his expense and is surprised when he’s only met by more seriousness. This might be more grave than he thought if the Tevinters are acting like they’re at a funeral and not the good kind. Felix continues, “Perhaps because you survived the Temple of Scared Ashes?”

Before he can respond, Dorian proposes, “You can close the rifts. Maybe there is a connection or they see you as a threat?” That doesn't seem _entirely_ out of the question. 

“If the Venatori are behind those rifts and the breach in the sky, they'd be even worse than I thought,” Felix adds in a sullen tone of voice. Maker, he is getting bored.

“All this for me? And I didn’t get Alexius anything,” Matthieu adds with a smirk, hoping to lighten the rock bottom room tone since Felix arrived. 

“Send him a fruit basket everyone loves those,” Dorian jokes with joviality in his tone. This is _new_. For today that is, as it is reminiscent of the better days he remembers before the Circle. But, he doesn’t have much time to think about it, as Dorian seems dead set on more planning. Oh, Cassandra must be eating all these tactics up. He prays she remembers what they’re learning in this Chantry, Maker knows he won’t remember the details because of certain _complications_. 

“And what are we to expect?” Cassandra asks, stepping in to save him. He will ask the Maker to bless that insufferably direct woman later.

“You know you’re his target. Expecting the first trap is the first step to turning it to your advantage,” Dorian explains before adding, “I can't stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn’t know I’m here. And I want to keep it that way for now. But whenever you’re ready to deal with him. I want to be there. I’ll be in touch.” 

With that, the mage attempts to dismiss himself, and Matthieu panics. He can’t leave, _not now_. He still has questions to ask that have _nothing_ to do with personal interests and are clearly professional. _Besides,_ they hadn’t cleared up the whole double agent deal yet. All things considered, it is probably a minuscule possibility but he couldn’t let that go uninvestigated. Leliana would be cross with him if he doesn't tie up the loose ends, so that is reason enough to stop him. Yes, that seems logical enough. 

“Wait. You’re not going anywhere, Pavus,” Matthieu barks, trying to hide the twinge of desperation in his voice behind the intimidation he is trying to muster. He doubts it is going as planned. 

“You don’t quite have that sort of authority,” Dorian says with a scoff, waving his hand as if to nonchalantly brush off his empty threat. 

“Oh, I’m _quite_ sure I do,” Matthieu says trying to puff out his chest a little bit and flex the authority he _definitely_ has. In all honesty, he's not sure if he even has the rank to what he’s thinking, but that doesn’t matter when the words come out of his mouth. “By order of the Inquisition, you will be held in our care until you are proven innocent.”

Dorian shoots him a dirty glare. The annoyance in his eyes implies the Tevinter thought he was past this. “I’m helping you or did I not make that abundantly clear?” Dorian chides with twinges of spite and sarcasm, sending them back to where they were before. 

Matthieu tries to tell himself the Altus made it clear, but not enough. He’s doing this for the safety of the Inquisition after all. He calmly stated, “One can never be too certain. Felix still remains free and in Redcliffe, so I see nothing wrong with taking precautionary measures.” 

“And here I thought you were against mage imprisonment,” Dorian says, putting a finger or his lip and letting out a dramatized sigh. It’s punctured by another snide remark, “I suppose people change.” 

He supposes he shouldn’t have ever expected the Altus to come quietly. Alas, he is resolved in this and if the mage wants to spar again, he’ll spar again. They had all the time in the world now. 

“Well, there _is_ a difference between a national security threat and the Chantry,” Matthieu says flippantly to give the mage a taste of his own medicine. He inches closer to Dorian and looks him dead in the eyes, “And I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you, _dear friend_.” 

Smirking at Dorian’s perturbed expression, Matthieu claps once and issues orders. Ah, in this one moment it is _good_ to be the Herald. “Cassandra, you are to guard him at all times until we reach camp. He is to never leave your sight.”

“How could he hide in those things?” Sera says with a snort and gesturing to Dorian’s ensemble, looking altogether pleased with herself. The elf certainly isn’t wrong, Dorian could never be overeducated or overdressed. Even when they fought literal demons in a run-down Chantry it seemed as if he hadn't lost his penchant for style. 

“I don’t think angering the person trying to help us is the smartest thing to do, Blue,” Varric offers scratching a hand behind his head. 

Before he can say anything, Dorian chimes in with, “With all due respect, I don’t think he cares.” The mage is right: He doesn’t.

“I would have to agree with Varric,” Cassandra groans in disgust as the words cross her lips, “This is a bit _too_ hasty.” 

By the Maker, why are they challenging him on this. He’s acting completely rational, Dorian could be a threat. But, if he has to try and pull rank to assert his dominance, so be it. “Would you like to deal with Leliana if he’s lying, considering you’d be the one to order his release?” 

“No. I do not,” Cassandra answers harshly. Good, they’re seeing his way of things. Maybe he is getting rather good at this whole diplomacy thing.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, trying to maintain a sense of control and not allow a gloating smirk cross his face, “The ‘Vint stays with us.”

“Well, it seems as if there is no point resisting as I am the Herald’s captive, Felix. Try not to get yourself killed while I’m gone,” Dorian says with a sigh and putting a hand to massage his temple. Matthieu is surprised he isn’t resisting more, he seems strangely revolved. He supposes it will make their journey back to Haven easier, not that Matthieu will be complaining.

“There are worse things than dying Dorian,” Felix says cooly. It’s clear the young man had seen too much in his short life and he supposes that one’s father turning into a cultist would do that to your demeanor. It’s truly a pity. 

“ _Evidently_ ,” Dorian remarks as he throws another death glare in Matthieu’s direction and meets his gaze. Matthieu immediately takes back every thought he had about this being a somewhat pleasant journey back. He supposed he made this lovely little bed with his big mouth and now he has to live with it. _Varric must be thrilled._


	8. 12 Drakonis, 9:41 Dragon — 13 Drakonis, 9:41 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian of House Pavus is having a lovely introduction to Southron ways as a political prisoner of his former childhood best friend who essentially reverts to being a child around him. The Altus is learning first hand that the Inquisition is indeed doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really took me over a month, so thanks to everyone who is still with me and this wild little adventure of mine. I keep accidentally writing things like fifteen chapters down the line instead of the actual fic, but I did it! Thank you for reading about my disaster sons/husbands/self-inserts, y'all are real ones.

The Maker must have a sense of humor. The last place the Altus expected to be was sharing a tent again with was Matthieu Trevelyan. When they were boys, the Trevelyan brothers wanted to ‘rough it’ during one of his visits to Ostwick, much to his dismay. He had shared a rather spacious tent with Matthieu and they had spent several hours where they swapped stories and Dorian cast spells to enchant the young noble. The Free Marcher wanted to learn a cadre of Tevene swears and phrases that night, so he could secretly swear at his brothers and the two of them could secretly communicate, so they stayed up the entire night. Needless to say, it was one of his fonder childhood memories. Here he was now, almost two decades later, in a much less spacious tent with the shadow of the boy he once knew who seemed to be waiting for the Altus to try and assassinate him. Perhaps, he should try parlor tricks. 

Dorian props himself on his side as he faces the brooding Herald. Matthieu lies on his back, arms crossed and staring at the fabric above them. It’s been like this for almost fifteen minutes now, in complete and utter silence. It’s one of the most painfully awkward experiences of his recent existence, so he decides to break the ice. 

“Does becoming a figurehead always come with such _wonderful_ travel accommodations?” He asks sarcastically as he gestures at their surrounding environment and puts on his best smirk. 

The blonde doesn’t even look at him, he just declaratively states. “I’m not in the mood, Pavus.” _Really?_ He never would have guessed. 

“You know, I do have a first name. _Dorian_ ,” he says, trying to fill the dead air between them, “A lovely name when it rolls across the tongue, isn’t it?”

When he notices this _still_ isn’t working, a thought comes to mind that will surely get the blonde to bite, “You used to be rather fond of it.”

“The keyword is _used to_. I’m growing impatient,” Matthieu says tilting his head to give him a glare before returning to his previous position. 

Dorian scoffs as he absentmindedly allows storm magic to pool to his fingertips. If he had to entertain himself so be it, “Then go sleep with the dwarf, I can tell when my presence isn’t wanted.”

“You know, He has a first name. _Varric_ ,” Matthieu says as he whips his face towards the Altus. It’s plastered with a fake smile and Dorian isn’t quite sure if the mockery or the accuracy is worse. 

“Then go sleep with _Varric_ , and leave me be,” He returns a spiteful grin Matthieu’s way and shoos him off with his hand. 

“And leave you alone to entertain plans of escaping?” Matthieu says with an unamused scoff, “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Well, you certainly act like you were,” Dorian says, earning himself another glare from Matthieu. It seems to be the former Circle Mage’s favorite pastime. 

He lets out a sigh, he seems to have Matthieu’s attention and he might as well be the serious _bigger person_ here, “Besides, if I wanted to leave I would have already taken my flight. I, however, want to _help_ the Inquisition, which I apparently need to keep reminding you.”

“And I won’t believe it until I see it,” Matthieu says in a deadpan manner before returning to his cross-armed and far-off brooding. _Maker_ , when did he become _this_ much of a prick? Maybe he needs to try a new angle? 

“Remember last time we were like this, Matt?” He asks wistfully to no response. _Please_ don’t tell him he’s still being infantile about the whole name business. 

He turns toward Matthieu more to observe him better, see if he can elicit a response. He tries to dig his claws into the other mage again, “I could teach you more Tevene, you seemed to like that, dear Matthieu.” The man hasn’t moved a muscle. 

_Fine,_ if the stubborn druffalo really needs to be this way. “Come now, your pronunciation earlier today was ghastly. Indulge me, _Herald?_ ”

Matthieu smiles at him bitterly and utters “ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ ” with almost impeccable pronunciation. Dorian finds himself slightly taken aback and he watches a smirk slowly travel across Matthieu’s face. 

He tries to keep his composure and nonchalantly shake off how _frustratingly_ well the other mage rose to that challenge. With a seemingly relevant turn of phrase too? He’s thoroughly shocked. Dorian scoffs, “Well, it seems your mind didn’t _completely_ rot in the Circle. Did they—”

Matthieu lets out a groan as he throws a hand to his head in frustration. The Altus is riling him up, this at least is more welcome than the scathing silence, “Making small talk isn’t helping your situation Pavus. It’s in fact, hurting it.”

Dorian bites back, “I’m just trying to be civil.” _He is._ Matthieu on the other hand is not. 

Matthieu jolts up in his bedroll and looks at him in a way that shows the mage is trying to put the fear of the Maker into the Tevinter. “By disrespecting my orders and talking about the _blighted_ Circle? _Try harder,_ ” Matthieu says, raising his voice.

“How was I supposed to know you’d get testy with me?” He asks, offended, to be quite frank, as he sits up in his bedroll as one. It’s getting to the point of the night when he’s not above pointing fingers and matching Matthieu’s volume, “You’ve changed.”

From outside their tent, he can hear light shuffling as they’ve apparently awoken or attracted the attention of the others. _Lovely._ This is exactly what he needs to deal with in the morning. Matthieu, however, doesn’t seem to care as Dorian’s last words were apparently a sore point. Each word comes out angrier, harsher, and nastier than the last, “That’s what being a mage in the South does to you. _Oh_. Is it not like that in your precious Tevinter? _For_ _maleficars.”_

_Fenhedis._ What a complete and utter _joy_ this is becoming. Someone, please remind him to never try and be helpful again because if _this_ is the thanks he gets it’s not worth it. He announces, “I’m going to bed,” to _nobody_ of importance and tries to lie down. 

“Well, thank the Maker for that,” Matthieu remarks with a glare that Dorian returns in short form. With that, the Altus takes the lantern in their tent and blows it out, returning the two of them to the stagnant peace and quiet of before. He _never_ should have said anything or tried to even engage with him in polite conversation because it would _surely_ be wasted on the indignant ass of a man Matthieu had become.

It seems that the young boy who fawned over his every footstep and tried to impress him with homemade gifts and enthralling adventures is truly gone. He suspected it earlier today, but this is no doubt confirmation that the years have made him nothing but a vindictive, albeit enticing, ass. He lies awake with these thoughts filling his head for a long while, finding himself unable to sleep. How could anyone be expected to sleep in this situation most unfortunate? It’s _unfathomable._

As half an hour or so has passed, Dorian is roused by the sound of fumbling about in the tent and whispers in the dark of “ _Kaffas,_ ” and “Where is it?” 

Dorian snaps a finger, setting a flame alight in his palm, to find a slightly disheveled Lord Trevelyan before him. He seems to be looking for something, quite frantically. With the faint glow radiating from the Altus and illuminating the tent, Matthieu snatches the lantern quickly and lets out a sigh of relief. He seems more at peace, which is altogether odd. _Unless._

“Do my eyes deceive me, is the mighty Lord Trevelyan afraid of the dark?” He makes a clicking sound of mock sympathy and shakes his head at the mage shamefully, “Maker, what will the others say?”

“If you tell a soul, Pavus, I will not hesitate to Immolate you,” Matthieu growls. Even with the faint light, Dorian can read the seething and slightly threatened expression on the other mage’s face. If Matthieu didn’t want to be civil, he could play this game _all day_. He is more than happy to throw every insult, every jab, every spade back in full force and instigate it even. 

“T’will be our little secret then,” Dorian smiles sweetly at him before revealing it’s more vindictive color, “Like all those others you kept from me.”

“ _Fenhedis_ , I am not doing this now,” Matthieu says in frustration as he moves back to his bedroll, still clutching the lanterns. 

“Don’t be a hypocrite,” Dorian chides ceaselessly, hoping to give Matthieu the same of that same bitter wine, “You didn’t seem to care when I didn’t want to earlier. I am simply returning the favor, _dear friend._ ”

“I’m going to bed,” Matthieu says as he lies down with his back to Dorian. 

A mischievous smile crosses Dorian’s visage as he utters, “Don’t you need your night light?”

Matthieu whips up from his bedroll, turning to him with his finger raised, set alight with a burning flame. He points directly at Dorian, looks him in the eyes, and gives him a deadpan “Fuck you.”

Dorian doesn’t laugh or falter, he just returns the look and offers a cool, “By all means.” He continues staring at Matthieu, after uttering those three words. He waits for Herald to back down, knowing he will. 

Matthieu breaks away with a disgusted groan. _And there it is_. Dorian feels a smirk inch across his face, knowing he’s gotten the last word in, at least this time, and puts the flame in his palm out. 

Matthieu busies himself lighting the lantern in their tent again, the inkling of a flush across his face. Once it’s lit and placed out of Dorian’s reach, the Herald throws himself down on the bedroll in a huff, clearly irritated. Dorian half expects him to try and get in another word edgewise. Maybe Matthieu would curse him out in Tevene, it _certainly_ would be befitting of the petulant child he still is. But he doesn’t, and it’s back to the silence. Dorian just prays that the Fade has something delightful in store for him this evening considering the utter nightmare he experienced today. _Maker help him._

* * *

The Altus awakes in the morning to a dreadful ache in his back and head and more importantly, the lovely sounds of yelling coming from outside the tent. For a moment, he almost forgets where he is, why he of all people is in some dingy tent and not a seedy tavern at the _very_ least. 

The phrase, “You cannot just bully people into submission,” is overheard outside in a heavy Nevarran accent, and Dorian can tell well enough that this will be a _long_ morning.

“Oh, this is _rich_ coming from you,” he hears the Inquisitor growl as Dorian tries to comb his hair so he doesn’t look _too_ unbecoming. He may be effectively a political prisoner at the moment, but he still has standards. 

Outside, Matthieu continues scolding the Seeker and Dorian cannot help but listen as he continues to make himself presentable. “What do you call me leading this _blighted_ organization. Friendly persuasion? _Enlighten me, Seeker._ ” 

He can practically feel the desperation in the Nevarran’s voice as she urges, “It’s different. You’re the Herald of Andraste. She would—”

“If I am her Herald, which you incessantly insinuate me to be, then _I think_ I know what she wants don’t I? Pavus is a loose end under _my_ jurisdiction. I won’t hear anything more on this,” Matthieu continues scathing. If it wasn’t abundantly clear that he is _not_ the kindly young boy from all those years ago already, it’s becoming more apparent by the moment. _Fendehis,_ he is a bit of an ass now.

“Could you tell us one more time Blue? I don’t think the Seeker heard you the other _eleven_ times,” the dwarf adds as Dorian takes one last peer in his small looking glass. At least someone else was fed up with this nonsense, but it seems as if it’s been going on longer than he expected. He must have been asleep for most of it, meaning that there is indeed a Maker.

Feeling presentable enough, Dorian leaves the tent and who would have possibly guessed, they are _still_ arguing. As he leaves, he tries to not draw attention to himself, but it is all too clear that this will not be the case. He feels the stares of the elf and dwarf beat down on him as the subject of their allies’ debate stands before them. Cassandra, seemingly unaware continues, “He’s a potential ally.” 

“Dear Maker, Cassandra! Pavus is a _threat_. He will be treated as such,” Matthieu groans before Varric’s coughing alerts the Inquisitor of Dorian’s presence. Matthieu glares at him and meets the Altus’ gaze. While the blonde seems to be finishing his ‘conversation’ with the Seeker, he keeps looking Dorian dead in the eyes as he says, “I know far too well what the ‘Vint is capable of.” 

“If you would just see reason,” Cassandra continues, but she just seems to be bashing her head against up a brick wall who just so happened to be named Matthieu Sebastian Trevelyan. 

“I’m seeing it and acting accordingly,” he says affirmatively. As everyone, but the Inquisitor himself, eyes him in judgment because he _is_ acting the irrational child, he throws his hands up in frustration and exclaims, “ _Kaffas_ I’m going on a walk.”

“You ‘aven’t eaten yet,” Sera retorts as she waves a bowl of gruel at him. 

“Take my portion, frankly I don’t care. I have food enough for thought,” he says as he storms off. Dorian looks to the elf, seeker, and dwarf to see if they should follow the little inferno, but this seems to be business as usual. _Lovely._ Sera simply shrugs and starts eating Matthieu’s gruel as Dorian sits down around the fire next to her and Varric. Cassandra, on the other hand, follows the Inquisitor's footpath with a grunt, as if to chase Matthieu down. 

“And so the man of the hour arrives?” Varric announces with an amused look on his face and some sort of notebook and quill in hand.

“Is he always like this?” Dorian asks preposterously. Surely, Matthieu is just off because of his presence, and who wouldn’t be when faced with his visage. It is rather enchanting. 

“They’ve been at it all morning,” Varric sighs, shaking his head and passing the Altus a portion of the gruel, “Broke their record, thanks to you.”

“Is that supposed to be flattering?” Dorian says with a scoff, as he fiddles with the disgusting mixture that these Southron heathens called food before him. At this point, he very well may prefer starving. 

“So you and Blue? You’ve got a history?” Varric asks, eyeing him curiously. As the Altus tries to spoon down the mixture, the question catches him off guard and he almost chokes. 

“Yes,” he says, trying to compose himself, “And I had preferred keeping it that way, but here we are.”

“How does a Magister like you know a Circle mage him?” Varric questions as he waggles his quill at Dorian pointedly. 

_Fasta Vass_ , is he really taking notes of something? He also is only _slightly_ annoyed at the mention of him being a ‘Magister’ _again_ , considering he explained himself yesterday. He sighs, “I am, once again, not a magister. I hope I shan’t need to repeat myself. I—”

“Oy, we get it silky-shorts,” the elf snorts as she spoons herself some gruel. Maker, would it kill anyone to have _some_ sort of propriety down here. 

“Now Buttercup is that any way to treat the nice nobleman,” Varric jokingly chastises her like a stern parent. 

She sends him the stink-eye and retorts, “Sod off or I’ll put arrows through you both. Got it?”

“Having fun yet?” Varric says, lightly elbowing him. Despite the dwarf’s needling, he’s glad that this one seems to be the most sane among the lot. 

“ _Exceedingly_ ,” Dorian says through a pained laugh, “This is truly how I imagined spending my morning.”

“Well get used to it, it’s a long trek back to Haven,” Varric smirks as he gathers himself off the ground and straps on his crossbow. 

“I beg your pardon, but you don’t mean to tell me we are traveling halfway across Ferelden on foot,” he asks, scandalized by the implications. They are a Chantry organization aren’t they, surely they have _something._ “Doesn't your little Inquisition have horses? _Resources_?”

“At the moment? No,” Varric shrugs as he straps potions to his belt and pockets the notebook. 

“ _Fasta Vass_ , you Southerners are all barbarians,” Dorian laments, albeit dramatically, as he tries to finish the gruel and finds himself unable to continue. 

“Lost without daddy’s favorite thoroughbred innit?” Sera asks as she straps on her quiver and juggles what seems to be a jar of something in her hands. _Maker, are those bees?_

The Altus doesn’t even respond. He really feels unable to at the moment, nothing he could say could save him at this point. His day _really_ is just getting better and better by the moment. 

* * *

As they traipse through the Ferelden Hinterlands for what seems like an eternity, they come across another tear in the Veil that the still insanely temperamental Herald needs to deal with. Spewing out from the rift, some Wraiths and a Lesser Terror Demon appear. Matthieu had, of course, ordered that he was not allowed to participate in combat, out of fear that he would try to escape. 

It’s becoming apparent how much of a paranoid and daft fool the Herald is. Did he _really_ believe he would try to flee from four people? Even if his magic could overpower some of them, it is unlikely he would survive the encounter and that’s _if_ he wanted to leave. _Which he doesn’t._ But, no. Matthieu really needs to be this way to feel he has _some_ semblance of control over his situation. It would be almost sad if he hadn’t wanted to Immolate the man. 

As the rest of the group fights the Demons, Dorian winces. The elf and dwarf’s ranged support is helpful enough but he cannot tell what has possessed Matthieu to fight in the manner that he does. He’s a mage for Andraste’s sake and shouldn’t be recklessly charging into battle as such. Somebody is going to get _seriously_ injured because of him, perhaps lose an arm or a leg? It’s only a matter of time. 

As the party tries to take down said rift, it’s clear that things aren’t going exceedingly well as shouts of “The Seeker’s down!” sound off. They had defeated the first wave, but more Demons decided it was an apt time to come out and play. He sees a Wraith launch a bolt at Sera while the Terror digs its talons into Varric. Matthieu tries to set one of the Wraiths aflame, which quickly evades his glyph.

Matthieu is quite possibly going to kill him but Maker does he have to do _everything_ himself. Dorian draws his quarterstaff and right before the other Wraith hits Matthieu he puts up a Barrier to absorb the damage. Sera’s arrow manages to find its target and takes out the Demon while Matthieu stands flabbergasted for a moment as to where said Barrier came from. The Altus thinks he can pick up a wave of realization crossing the other mage’s face before he shouts, “What in the Maker’s name are you doing, Pavus?” 

“Fight now. Chastise him later, Blue,” a slightly out of breath Varric calls across the field as he fires off another several bolts from Bianca at the Lesser Terror Demon tries to accost him. 

“I would listen to the dwarf. He at least has sense,” Dorian loudly agrees as he sends a bolt of electricity from atop his quarterstaff to impale the Demon that Varric is fighting. With a few well-placed crossbow bolts and electric bolts the Demon goes down easily. As the Wraiths swarm Sera, Dorian reflexively places another Barrier up while Matthieu focuses on offensively using inferno magic in both senses of the word. _His technique is abhorrent._

He supposes that’s what Southron Circle training does to you, it’s certainly not what his casting would have been like if they had studied in Tevinter together like Matthieu had wanted. _Like he had wanted_. The Altus was a prodigy, he would have helped him get it right. But he couldn’t, he wasn’t allowed to, and now  _ this casting _ is what’s left in its place. A pity really. 

As enemies dwindle on the battlefield and the group can focus certain Demons, things seem to run smoothly and in no time at all the Inquisitor is able to close the rift, while Varric helps administer a potion to the downed Seeker. After the rift is closed, as expected, the Free Marcher marches up to the Tevinter with a fire in his eyes. 

“I said you’re not allowed to use magic,” Matthieu growls at him, as he straps his quarterstaff upon his back again. With each step closer, the mage seems angrier and angrier, and Dorian _certainly_ isn’t going to deal with this insolence. 

Instead, he smirks at the mage and flippantly remarks, “You shouldn’t be allowed to either. Have you seen how you cast?”

“This is no laughing matter,” Matthieu tries to say with some sense of authority. He seems undeterred in trying to keep a hold of the situation and Dorian will _not_ allow it. 

“I’m not laughing,” Dorian says as he puts a hand to his chin before pointing a finger at Matthieu with a sly smile, “Are you?” 

“ _Vishante Kaffas,_ ” Matthieu groans under his breath. He lets out a heavy sigh and tries to compose himself once more, “Just _don’t_ do it again, understand?”

Dorian just lets out a scoff, not allowing his guard to fall, “Don’t try to save you from your complete and inevitable demise in combat? Should I just let you die then?” 

“He’s got a point,” Varric says as he tries to help the battered Seeker to her feet, which is altogether humorous considering the height disparity between them.

“Silky-shorts was ‘elpful enough in a bind,” Sera says, pointing at the Altus. Matthieu shoots her a glare as she leans against a tree and ungracefully swigs a health potion. She only gives the Herald a shrug. 

Under his breath, the Altus mutters that he has a name but it goes unheard under the pouting of the mage. “You know what. _Fine_ . When one of us ends up dead, you’ll see,” Matthieu laments, clearly frustrated with the party ganging up on him, which they _should_ be doing all things considered. He’s acting with _no_ regard to actual reason like some petulant child. Here he thought the Herald would be some sort of imposing or intimidating figure or someone to be revered and respected. Matthieu is _neither_ , to be quite frank.

Dorian is surprised when the dwarf claps him on the back for a job well done as everyone follows Matthieu’s trailblazing back towards Haven. When Cassandra notifies him that they are in fact only a quarter of the way there, Dorian considers making a run for it: This little adventure is already becoming a fate worse than death. Next time he tries to do something noble to try and assure the sanctity of a homeland that would not accept his inclinations, he prays to the Maker someone will knock the sense into him and persuade him to be selfish once again. Being selfless is just _not_ worth it.


End file.
